


take a chance on me

by martial_quill



Series: The Importance of Estel [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Wild Finrod Appears, A Wilder Fëanor Appears, Abandonment Issues, Adoption, Elves, Established Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Maedhros is a Good Bro, Matt Murdock Gets a Hug, Matt Murdock is a Prickly Cactus Child, Songs of Power, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-08-16 22:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16503779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: Seasons change, empires come and go, but Goldberry remains a healer of hearts, and Maglor has always been terribly fond of children.Or, the one where Maglor and Goldberry adopt Matt Murdock.





	1. I met a girl who sang the blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beguile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For the First Time in Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307629) by [martial_quill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill). 
  * Inspired by [Recording 532094: Interview with Maglor Fëanorion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028814) by [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna). 



> This is an AU of an AU. It's AU-inception. A gift for Beguile, and also primarily enabled by her, and the fact that I've been getting into the Silmarillion lately. It occurred to me that the Defenders could really use somebody who had extensive combat experience, understands what it is to be a fighter, without a) believing that it automatically makes someone a monster and b) the emotional expression of a set of cutlery. Then I watched DDs3, and the #giveMattaGoodWarriorDad campaign moved up the timeline considerably. 
> 
> The chapter titles are all song-based lyrics. I don't know if listening to American Pie improves the experience of reading chapter one, but some chapters – six, in particular – could be read in conjunction with the music. So, the song-list for this story: 
> 
> 1\. American Pie, Don McLean  
> 2\. Sigh Not So, Reuben Hudson  
> 3\. Shelter from the Storm, Bob Dylan  
> 4\. Family Portrait, Pink  
> 5\. Danny Boy, any version  
> 6\. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Pentatonix rendition  
> 7\. Back Home, Andy Grammer
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in a park by the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some use of the 'c' slur. Also, survivor guilt, and Matt Murdock's terrible self-esteem. You have been warned.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _I met a girl who sang the blues,_  
>  _And I asked her for some happy news,_  
>  _But she just smiled and turned away._  
>  _I went down to the sacred store,_  
>  _Where I'd heard the music years before,_  
>  _But the man there said the music wouldn't play._  
>  _And in the streets, the children screamed,_  
>  _The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed;_  
>  _And not a word was spoken,_  
>  _The church bells all were broken._
> 
> – American Pie, Don McLean

When Matt Murdock is ten, he sneaks out of the orphanage one night.

Hell’s Kitchen is _his,_ indelibly printed on his ears and mind and heart, so navigating it presents no problem at all. He slips out of his bunk, and into his shoes. The advantage of no bedtime stories and no personalised tucking in is that adults find it harder to notice little oddities, like when a ten-year old boy curls up in his bed fully-clothed.

He cocks his head, listening to the footfalls of Sister Maggie doing the night rounds; Mary in the girl’s dormitory was crying. Soft footfalls, and then Sister Maggie’s warm, husky voice beginning a soft lullaby. Matt slips out into the corridor. Down the hallway, take the stairs, out the door that led into the garden, and then, over the iron-wrought fence, and scrambling down onto the sidewalk.

It isn’t far to his intended destination, but he sticks to the fire escapes and the roof-tops anyway, listening to the sounds of the city as he walks. His cane is back at the dormitory; the only thing that attracts more negative attention than a kid out at night is a _blind_ kid out at night. He keeps his footfalls light and quiet, balancing on his feet the way Stick had shown him, to better feel the vibrations. On this block, there was a fussy baby crying, and a harried mother trying to soothe her cries. A woman crying out, her screams frantic, and a man moaning with her. Laughter from the Chang Korean restaurant, on 45th and 11th; their daughter has just gotten accepted into the college programme she wanted. The smell of something sweet and bubbly floats out their window, and Matt breathes it in, shaking his head to clear it from the slight dizziness that crashes over him.

Not far, now.

12th Avenue is never quiet, not even after midnight. But that is to be expected. It is New York, after all. The sound of cars rushing past bounces off the litter that decorate the cross-walk, broken glass and cigarette stubs and aluminium cans like the result of some twisted parade of carelessness. Not for the first time, Matt wishes that bringing his cane wouldn’t attract even more attention than a ten-year old boy being out alone at night. But if wishes were horses–

Matt swallows at his Dad’s blue eyes flashing in his memory, and shakes his head, focussing on what he can hear again. The rushing of the cars. The water of the Hudson, its flow muted, but still strong. And – is that singing?

Matt tilts his head. It’s a faint echo, but it’s there. Someone is singing.

He walks a little faster, entering the park on the pier. Not far from the entrance, a bunch of men are standing together, and they smell like alcohol, smoke and trouble. Matt dodges around the public toilets; the stench is awful, but not as awful as attracting attention would be. And the singing is louder, now, to his hearing. It’s coming from the west side of the pier.

Matt walks even faster, silently dodging around tree roots. It’s a woman’s voice, singing in a clear soprano, strong and vibrant, and ageless. He doesn’t understand the words that she is singing, but they make him think of clear summer skies, the texture of grass under bare feet, the strength of tides and spring flowers opening all at once. But –

Matt stops cold in his tracks. He can hear the singing, and still feel all of the things that the song made him think of. But he has _no idea_ where the voice is coming from, and sour panic and adrenaline flood his mouth when the singing stops. He waits for a long, tense, anxious moment before–

_She’s behind me!_

He whirls around, turning to face her. A woman, about seven feet tall, balanced on her feet like a dancer, not wearing shoes. Strong. Very, very strong. Her heartbeat is calm and slow; she smells like paper, lilies, ozone and metal. Gold? Gold. “What are you doing out at this hour, child?” she asks him, with a burr that’s vaguely British to her voice.

Not angry. Not panicked. Not alarmed. Not embarrassed, the way adults normally are if you catch them doing something that’s weird. The question is asked very mildly, as though this is as regular an occurrence as singing in a park at 2:00am.

“What are you doing?” he shoots back.

“Singing,” she says, with no further explanation, as if that’s all she needs to say. “You?”

“Listening,” Matt replies, deadpan and flippant, and the woman chuckles. There’s no flinch that he sometimes gets from adults when they encounter his snark, like they weren’t expecting the blind kid to have teeth; there’s no grinding of teeth or flexing of fingers that herald the posturing for control of the conversation. Just a laugh, as though he’s very funny and a little small.

“Perhaps introductions are in order? My name is Marigold Rivers.”

“Matt,” he says.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she says, crouching and extending her hand. Matt doesn’t take it. Her heartbeat thuds a little slower, and she gives a little hum. “The world can be a very cruel place sometimes,” she says, seemingly apropos of nothing, as she rises to her full height again. There's nothing about Matt right now that should affirm that particular truism. Unless – could she have seen his eyes? He's not wearing his sunglasses. But no, Matt's not standing in the light, and sighted people can't see  _that_ well in the dark. Can they?

Matt waits for her to finish the sentence, but the silence hangs in the air. If she thinks it’s awkward, her heartbeat doesn’t show it, and neither does her smell.

“Yeah,” Matt says, eventually, because that’s obvious. Painfully obvious, in fact. One hand clenches around the bracelet in his pocket.

“Mm.” Marigold sits on the grass, cross-legged, her breathing even and relaxed, and Matt shifts on his feet.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to get lost? Or to go home?”

“Now that you mention it, I suppose I could do that. Should I?”

An obvious answer. “No.” Matt reconsiders. “Well, I guess not. It depends.”

“It depends on what?”

Matt crosses his arms. “What are you, a teacher?”

“Yes. Depending on what?”

“You shouldn’t tell a child out at 2:00am to get lost, if you want to think of yourself as a normal person,” Matt tells her bluntly.

“Hmm. You must be about, what, twelve years old? There might be mitigating factors. Do you have family near you? Have you wandered away from someone?”

“Why do you _talk_ like that?” Matt doesn’t know a single person who speaks that formally. Not even Father Lantom. But it makes him want to smile. At least he’s definitely not the only strange person in this park tonight.

And the deflection fails.

“Habit. Where's your home?”

Matt doesn’t say anything.

“Hm. And family?”

Matt stays silent, and knows that it is answer enough.

The woman takes long, deep breath, and her heartbeat turning slower and sadder, and like that, Matt feels the amusement that was beginning to bubble in him vanish.

“A cruel place indeed, sometimes. Child Services?”

Matt sighs. “Saint Agnes’ Orphanage.”

Marigold nods, and then hesitates. “You don’t want to go back.”

It’s stated as a fact, as simply as she might be talking about the colour of water. And there’s something in her voice, a calmness, that combined with the sad _ba-bum_ of her heartbeat, that makes Matt _furious_.

“Of _course_ I don’t want to go back,” Matt says, because it’s not like he’ll ever see this stranger again, so why not? Why not? “I can’t eat half the food, half the kids think I’m a freak and the other half think I’m a _cripple_ , the clothes feel like fire on my skin, and – and–”

He blinks back the tears, as they swam to his eyes, as memory gnawed at him again: Dad’s hand ruffling his hair, Dad’s blue eyes, the sound of his voice humming _Back in Black,_ his smell of Scotch and antiseptic and blood and sweat.

“And it isn't home,” Marigold says, and Matt nods, wrapping his arms around himself, even though the night wasn’t that cold.

“You were singing earlier,” he says. “Why?”

There’s something sad twined into her voice when she speaks again. “You are not the only one who is a long way from home. Albeit in a somewhat different way.”

“I’m not a long way from home.”

“No? My mistake.”

“It sounded like spring.” Matt blinks. It didn’t sound quite so stupid in his head. “The song,” he clarifies.

“Yes,” her voice is thoughtful. “I expect it would sound like that. The composer wrote it during the spring. You came over because you heard me singing?”

Matt nods, and she pats the grass beside her. Matt walks over and sits down beside her, careful not to touch her. Her hand lands on his shoulder, gently, but the second he tenses, it leaves again.

“You sing when you’re homesick?”

She nods. “It helps me. Everyone in my family loves music, and when I think of music, I think of them. It helps me remember that I am never as alone as I think I am.”

“But what if you _are_ alone?” Matt says.

She shakes her head, and her hair rustles around her shoulders and her back with the motion. “We are never alone. Do you hear the sound of the water? Hear the call of the pigeons? You are never alone.”

 _"I_ am,” Matt bites out. Pixie dust and thanksgiving exercises won’t change that, they won’t bring his Dad back, or his Nana, or his _mother_ –

A long sigh from her, before she begins to hum again. The melody is sweet and coaxing, almost like a lullaby, and Matt’s retort that he’s not a _baby_ anymore dies on his lips. The song feels like Dad’s callused, strong hand ruffling through his hair; smells like the air at Fogwell’s, and the cedar polish of wooden walls of the dormitory corner where he curls up sometimes; it tastes like hot chocolate with marshmallows _._

_What’s wrong with me? Music doesn’t have tastes._

Matt tucks his knees against his chest and buries his face there, blinking hard, and her hand rests on his shoulder, her touch lighter than feathers, and cool as a fire hydrant in summer.

“You’ve had a very long day, haven’t you?” she asks, breaking the melody.

“What kind of a name is Marigold anyway?” Matt says, his voice thick, even as he tries to stem the tears.

She huffs a laugh, and Matt feels a square of cloth being pressed into his palm. “Here. Handkerchief. You were born in the city, weren’t you?”

 _Who the hell uses a handkerchief?_ “Yeah.”

“A marigold is a type of flower. It’s very common where I’m from.”

“England?”

“Wales, actually.” She goes back to singing, and he can’t understand the words. They sound pretty, though, like flowing water and rippling waves. As she continues to sing, the tastes and phantoms of texture come back stronger. Something soft sliding beneath his fingertips; the delicate yet oddly thick petal of a flower, opening and blooming. The smell of roses, and a light that was gentler than sunlight, but still warming. Twigs and branches cracking under his feet, and choruses of birdsong in trees, so harmonious that it _surely_ had to be orchestrated. A verse that tasted like honey and smoke on his tongue.

As the song winds to a close, Matt lets out a sigh.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads. He sounds and feels more than a bit pathetic, and he swallows, because she is looking at him, he _knows_ that she is looking at him, and his soul must be showing straight through his face now, raw and exposed and naked.

"Mmm." She's quiet for a moment, and then, softly, begins to sing again.

“ _If you said goodbye to me tonight,_

_There would still be music left to write…”_

She sings, and the sound of it soothes the raw, vulnerable feeling, enough to the point where Matt feels his eyelids drifting closed. He can leave them like that for a while, he thinks. Just for a moment, and then he’ll go.

* * *

 Matt wakes up in his bed at the orphanage to the sound of Sister Nora’s foot-steps in the corridor. He’s still in the jeans and T-shirt that he wore last night. He stretches, and takes a deep breath, filtering through the mélange of information: Darren has a cough, Alistair had a gross dream, Barry had a nightmare, judging by the sour taste of adrenaline in the air–

Matt takes another deep breath. No, he’s not imagining it. Clinging to his own skin is the scent of grass and lilies, paper and electricity.

Slowly, Matt smiles.

* * *

 That night, he sneaks out again, taking the same route. It’s a Friday night; there are more people outside. Dinner had been meatloaf, but burned and then covered in thick sauce to try and disguise the taste, but the sauce had been so processed and thick and gluggy on his tongue that Matt had nearly gagged. All of which means that Matt is starving.

But he’s also curious, so he climbs over the fence again.

He sticks to the roof-tops, and weaves behind a crew of college girls when it comes time to cross 12th Avenue. They smell heavily of alcohol, of fruit, and their arms are wrapped around each other’s waists, teetering in their heels. It doesn’t seem like a smart footwear choice, when they’re already having trouble with their balance. Whatever.

The guys aren’t by the entrance tonight; there’s a couple standing beside one of the trees, her back pressed to the trunk of the tree, but judging by the sounds they’re making, they wouldn’t notice if a ticker-tape parade came passing through, complete with brass band. Matt winces, and takes a deep breath, jogging past them and focussing–

There. The song is softer tonight, almost absent-minded, and there’s the fainter sound of a pen scritching against paper. She’s singing in English tonight. “ _Just you and I, oh, just you and Iiii–_ ”

Matt smiles and picks up his pace.

He can’t sneak up on her, but the bag at the base of the tree up ahead smells very, very faintly of lilies and electricity. He goes to pick it up, and feels a hand close around his wrist, encircling it effortlessly. Her fingertips are callused, he realises with interest. Is she a musician?

“Hello, Matt,” she says. “I’m afraid there’s nothing particularly interesting in my bag for you, unless you want to try grading my students’ papers.”

Matt tilts his head up. “Why are you here?”

“I like the space,” she says, sitting down beside him. Matt hears the _pop_ of a pen being uncapped, and then the return of the _scritch-scritch-scritch_ sound. “If I’m going to be grading first-year papers, I may as well do it in comfort.”

Matt frowns. “You think the park is comfortable?”

Sure, parks are fun. Beautiful, even. Being able to hear the quiet movement of the Hudson, and smell the grass is good. But tree roots poke into your back, and tree bark feels scratchy on skin when you lean into the trunk of the tree, and if you sit still for longer than five minutes, you get ants on you, which is absolutely shitty. And the lighting couldn’t be that great either.

“Yes. You’re giving me the look my juniors normally give me,” Marigold says, her smile audible.

“You could just _get a couch,_ ” Matt says.

“The couch in my apartment is very comfortable,” she says. The pen has paused again. “But I like the park. It’s like the singing.” The _scritch_ starts up again.

“Helps with the homesickness?”

He’s asking too many questions, she’s probably going to get fed up and tell him to go, let her get on with the marking but he shifts on his toes, because she hasn’t said anything _yet_ and just maybe–

She nods, and her hair rustles with the movement. “My family is quite outdoorsy. Well, aside from my husband. He’s a city boy, like you.”

“You’re married?”

For some reason, the thought is startling, even if a wedding band does explain the smell of gold that he’d detected on her the night before. He’s not sure why. Maybe because she’s so playful, even in a dry way, it makes it hard to remember that she really is a grown-up.  

“Mmhm.”

“Then why aren’t you at home with him?”

“So nosy,” she says, her tone utterly tranquil, and more than a little amused. “I am not at home with him, because _he_ is not at home. He’s away on business, I’m afraid. And as I said, I like being outdoors because it reminds me of my family. And him.”

“You just said he wasn’t outdoorsy.”

“He is not naturally inclined to it, no. But camping and hiking are some of my favourite things in the world, and before we got married, we spent quite a lot of time doing those things together.” She pauses. “Do you talk to everyone like you’re cross-examining them, or am I special?”

“You’re weird,” Matt tells her.

“True,” she accepts with a nod. “But then, you’re not exactly typical yourself either.”

“Thanks?” He can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not. But she’s seven feet tall, _definitely_ smells like electricity, sings way more than a normal person does, and apparently decides that the perfect time to do her grading is after midnight on a Friday night, in a floodlit park. Is she some kind of alien, or something?

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Are you going to stand there all night, or will you sit?”

Matt sits down beside her, and listens to the scritch-scritch-scritch of her and the sound of her humming. She’s singing something fierce and fast, when she stops mid-note, snorting with laughter. “Oh, dear.”

“Hmm?” Matt asks. He feels faintly lightheaded from the hunger, and pinches himself, trying to make himself focus.

“One of my freshmen has mixed up afforestation and reforestation. Which is a problem, considering the question is: _Using examples from the assigned reading, enumerate historical examples of afforestation with negative repercussions on surrounding ecosystems._ ”

“What’s afforestation?”

“Planting a forest in, say, a grassland.”

“And reforestation is...when you fix deforestation?”

“Theoretically. The practise is complicated,” Marigold says, something wry in her voice. She sounds like Dad when Matt used to tell him _you gotta keep your gloves up._ Matt swallows.

She seems to pick up on it, because she starts to sing, a low wordless song that’s almost certainly a lullaby, soothing and coaxing. Matt smells roses and that warm, gold light again, and tastes caramel on his tongue.

“How are you _doing this,_ ” he mumbles, and it’s only then that Matt realises his nose is resting on her shoulder. He straightens.

“It’s alright,” she says, and the pen pauses while she reaches out and touches his shoulder with a feather-light brush of her hand. “I don't mind. I have extensive practise in serving as a pillow. It comes with being the eldest of three sisters.”

“You dodged the question.”

“You’re very stubborn,” she notes. “And very intelligent. What’s your theory?”  

Matt licks his lips, which have suddenly gone dry.

“When you sing, I taste or feel things that aren’t really there,” he says. Her heartbeat picks up, a little nervously, and Matt clenches his hands into fists. Oh God, oh God, he’s ruined it, she’s _unhappy_ now, but he can’t stop talking, the words just keep tumbling out. “Is it – am I going crazy?”

“No. I should have been paying more attention. No, you’re not going crazy,” she says. “My culture is – very old. We have developed certain techniques for making music more real, as it were. For most people, it manifests in seeing a particular thing with their waking eyes, instead of their mind’s eye. Apparently, for you, it manifests with your other senses. The world has changed a great deal, but we still hold onto those techniques.”

Her heartbeat was steady. Truthful. Even if the pause before she spoke suggested that she was thinking very, very carefully about her words.

Matt frowns, trying to think past the receding panic and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. “Are you Native American?”

“No. But there are similarities between certain Native American groups and mine,” she says, a thoughtful tone to her voice now. “A penchant for oral history, for one.”

Matt’s stomach growls audibly, and she hums. “Have you not eaten, Matt?”

He sighs. “I couldn’t eat dinner.”

“Hmm. Can you eat now?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

There’s the _pop_ of the pen being capped, and then the rustling, shuffling of papers being put into the bag, and a strong hand hauling him up to his feet. “Come on, then. Let’s go get something to eat. This is the advantage of New York City.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

“I said, let’s go get something to eat.”

And that is how Matt Murdock ends up eating Turkish food at 2:00am in a little place on West 43rd, pretending to be the nephew of a silvology professor who he thinks might not be human. Maybe she's like the grown-up version of the 'special children' the nuns talk about sometimes, when they think no-one can hear. 

Marigold laughs, and pushes her green tea towards him when he nearly gags on how sweet the apple tea is, teasing him with warmth in her voice, and Matt grins back at her, just for a second, before downing the cup.

“Tea-thieving little monster,” Marigold says mournfully, as he pushes the empty tea cup back at her, but her heartbeat is happy again.

“You offered,” Matt says, unrepentant, and Marigold laughs again, the faux-plaintiveness shattering like so much brittle glass.

This time, he falls asleep in the chair, and is totally unconscious of being swung up into strong arms. 

* * *

 

The next night, Darren has a fever, and he tosses and turns, crying out, and it’s impossible to sleep. This only gets harder, when Sister Maggie comes into the room, and dabs a cool cloth over Darren’s cheeks and forehead, humming a soothing lullaby as she sings. Her voice is raspy, alto, not soprano and sweet, and Matt finds himself licking his lips, as though that will make him taste caramel.

It doesn’t.

Matt rolls over in the scratchy sheets, and tries to block out the sound of Darren’s whimpering.

* * *

 The day after that, when Matt successfully sneaks out to the park, she’s not there.

There is no singing, and Matt runs through the park, listening as hard as he can despite the whip-crack of the thunder, because _no,_ his hearing must be acting up, surely that soprano is around here somewhere–

But after the third circuit of the huge park, Matt slumps against the trunk of one of the trees, curls into the foetal position, and swallows hard.

_She’s not coming._

He’d thought – he’d just thought–

Laughter, and lullabies, and simple _acceptance,_ because there was no rubric that Marigold was marking him against, no standards, she–

Matt buries his face in his hands, and purses his lips, because he’s not going to cry. He is _not._

“What _are_ you doing here, child?”

Matt’s head snaps up so fast, it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.

“You’re here!”

“My old paranoia to the rescue again,” Marigold says, picking him up and settling him on her hip. “Ye gods and little fish, you’re soaked.” Matt goes tense for a second in her arms, before he buries his nose in her shoulder. They’re _both_ soaked, and Marigold’s skin is soft and warm, and she still smells like lilies and electricity, even if the storm has washed a lot of the comforting paper smell away. Really _here_ , really _real_ –

“New rule,” Marigold says. “No more sneaking out after midnight.”

Matt freezes, his heart in his throat. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he chokes out, because he’s ruined things again–

Her hand combs through his hair. “Shh, I know. I know.”

“Don’t – _don’t_ –” he wants to say ‘don’t leave’, he wants to say ‘I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ ’, because Marigold is strange and odd, but so is Matt and Marigold seemed like she liked him _anyway—_

 _You have to control your feelings,_ Stick's voice replays in his mind, like the burning taste of Scotch and a knife's edge. 

“Hush, little one. Hush. It’s alright,” her voice croons in his ear. “Shh, it’s alright.”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says into her shoulder. “I didn’t want to–.”

Her tone is confused when she replies. “You've ruined nothing, as far as I can see.”

Matt freezes, and her hand keeps combing through his hair, soothing and soft.

“Matt. Would you like me to come visit you, at St Agnes’?”

Matt’s heart is in his throat. “Come again?” because he can’t have heard that right.

“Would you like me to come and visit you at Saint Agnes? It’s not sustainable for you to keep doing this. You need your sleep, and I can’t keep breaking in to the orphanage to return you to your bed. But if you want, I will continue to visit you.”

Her heartbeat is steady. Truthful.

“When?” Matt demands.

She hums. “Let’s see. Monday afternoons, my classes finish at 4:00. Would the nuns let me visit then?”

Matt shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Very well. I’ll come to Mass tomorrow and ask them. Would that work?”

Matt nods, and leans his head against her shoulder again, because she is strong and warm, and Matt is _freezing_.

“In the mean-time, though, let’s get you home,” she says, and Matt groans.

The sisters are going to _freak_.

* * *

3rd April, 2000 

_7:37pm EST_

**ForgingGold:** Hello, love. 

**WillowWand:**  Hi! How’s everything going over there?

 **ForgingGold** : Oh, same old, same old. Atar and Amil are both nose-deep in some exciting new project, Celebrimbor and Curufin haven’t left their lab for three days, and Finno and I have been catching up, since Finno's visiting too, at the moment.

 **WillowWand:** Tell them all I said hello, and give them my love.

 **ForgingGold:** Of course. How are you?

 **WillowWand:** Actually, funny story there–

 **ForgingGold:** Oh no. Nobody’s dead, at least? Please tell me that.

 **WillowWand:** Hush. No, nobody’s dead. I appear to have acquired the friendship of a small child.

 **ForgingGold:** If you get yourself arrested on charges of kidnapping, I am not staging another jail-break.

 **WillowWand:** If the child removes himself from the place he is supposed to be, it’s running away, not kidnapping. If you return the child each night, in a timely fashion, then it is also not kidnapping.

 **ForgingGold:** So nothing more than breaking and entering. What’s the story?

 **WillowWand:** His name is Matthew.

 **WillowWand:** His name is Matthew, he can’t be older than ten. He is blind, an orphan, and angrier than a mother bear whose cub has been stolen. I met him I was out at the park – I was missing you and home and everyone – and he heard my singing. I think there might be a touch of Dúnedain in him. Just the tiniest part.

 **ForgingGold:** You like him.

 **WillowWand:** Quite a lot. I ended up singing to him that first night – it was late, and old habit kicked in, and he came back to the park the next day. He’s sharp as a tack, as broken glass, but I think there is a sweet boy buried in there somewhere. One of the many reasons I have been wishing you were here.

 **WillowWand:** Matt, however, seems considerably more ambivalent about me. He likes it when I visit, since we have agreed that I should visit rather than him continuing with his midnight adventures. But talking to him is like trying to hold an unpotted cactus.

 **ForgingGold:** Give him time. I’m sure he’s lonely. He’s probably scared, too. Give him time, and be reliable.

 **WillowWand:** I wish you were here. I think you’d be much better at this than me.

 **ForgingGold:** Because I'm proof that you're good at this? It's not the first time you've patched up broken hearts, love.

 **WillowWand:** Flattery will get you nowhere.

 **ForgingGold:** Fine, I’ll admit that I also function as an excellent pillow and singer of lullabies.

 **WillowWand:** Maglor, please. Be serious.

 **ForgingGold:**  Alright. You’ll be fine. Trust me. And I’ll be there soon. I can’t wait to meet him.

 **WillowWand:** One more week. I love you.

 **ForgingGold:** I love you too.

* * *

The nuns decide that Marigold can visit Matt on Mondays. This only happens after Marigold has a long, long conversation with Sister Maggie, where Sister Maggie’s heart pounds in a rhythm that Matt can’t quite decipher. Marigold answers all of Maggie’s questions about where she works, about the park that Matt’s been sneaking out to, about why she didn't return Matt immediately.

“I was curious about why a child might be wandering around after midnight,” Marigold says dryly. “Please allow me to assure you that I returned Matt as soon as I believed that he would stay put each time.”

Unspoken, Matt thinks, is the fact that a ten old boy shouldn’t have been able to get out of the orphanage unnoticed, slip past all the nuns, and climb the fence. Sister Maggie rubs her forehead, and Marigold’s stance relaxes fractionally. Which is weird, because when Sister Maggie starts asking more questions, there is little of the gentleness hidden beneath the sarcastic, dry-humour that normally marks her. Instead, her questions are pointed, her voice edged with something like broken glass – when did she come to the States? Is she a permanent resident? Is she married? What does she teach? – Twenty years ago, yes, yes, silvology and dendrology.

“Professor, could you give me a moment with Matt alone?”

Marigold’s hair rustles, and her footsteps fade as she walks out of the sanctuary into the courtyard outside. Matt swallows.

“I’m in so much trouble, aren’t I?”

“Obviously,” Sister Maggie says, her hand landing on his shoulder in something between an affectionate squeeze and a warning. “What do you think of her?”

“Marigold?”

“The Professor, yes,” Sister Maggie replies, her tone cooler now.

Matt shrugs. “She’s – nice,” he manages. _She’s weird, she’s strange, she sings at 2:00am, she tells me about her freshmen students’ mistakes, she answers my questions and she takes me seriously–_ He can admit that, at least. “She doesn’t patronise me. She takes my questions seriously, when I have them, and she always tries to answer them.”

Maggie takes a deep breath, her heartbeat thudding slower in her chest. Sadder, now. Why is she sad? “Would you like her to come and visit you again?”

He _should_ play it cool, pretend like it doesn’t matter, like he’s fine either way. Matt catches himself giving an eager nod, like when he was five years old, and Dad asked him, his hand ruffling over Matt’s hair, “Ready for Christmas Eve, Matty?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, and he’s very proud his voice doesn’t shake. “Yeah, I would.”

Maggie takes another deep breath. “Alright, then.” She pauses. “You’re still not getting out of the extra chores for this.”

Matt stares at the floor, and hopes that it’s enough to hide the smile on his face.

* * *

On the second Monday of Matt’s punishment period, on a hot spring day, Marigold turns up with another person. He’s even taller than she is, and he smells like some kind of wood, like paper, gold, and some sort of sharp fragrance. Marigold’s scent of ozone and lilies lingers on him as well, and that tells Matt everything.

He listens to their heartbeats with interest, as he steps into the courtyard.

“Matt!” Marigold says, crossing the courtyard to him. Her heartbeat is light, joyful. Happy to see him? Matt shakes himself, and the thought off with it. “It’s good to see you. I’ve got someone I’d like to introduce to you. Mac, come over here.”

There are approaching foot-steps, and Matt reaches out his hand. Marigold knows that he’s not as blind as he looks, but he’s not sure if Mac knows. He’s not sure if Mac should know.

Mac takes it with no hesitation, and Matt tilts his head to the side in thought.

His hand is hot. Almost fever-hot, but his pulse isn’t racing, like it would be if he was sick. It’s also huge, and with calluses on the fingertips that are touching against Matt’s wrist – like Matt says, the hand is huge – and further down the fingers, like Stick had, calluses along the bends of the fingers and on the palm itself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Matt,” the man says, and his voice makes Matt shiver. It’s smooth and rich, a baritone that reminds Matt of soft velvet and honey, even though the hand has calluses in the same place as Stick’s does. But he couldn’t smell anything less like Stick. Everything in Stick’s scent and walk had signalled danger, had signalled a coiled strength, and this man’s voice is gentle, with its burr that Matt can’t quite place. So  _gentle,_ gentler even than Marigold's not-human kindness. “I’ve heard a great deal of good things about you. I’m Mac Fenway. Marigold’s husband.”

Matt smirks in Marigold’s general direction. “You talk about me?”

“I figured I ought to mention the tea-guzzling mischief-maker I’ve acquired,” she says.

“I’m not _that_ much trouble."

“Could have fooled me,” Marigold says, but there is laughter rippling in her voice as she ruffles his hair. Matt pulls a face at her. “I’m assuming that you’re still confined to the orphanage grounds while you’re punished, yes?”

“Punished?” Mac asks.

“For sneaking out, love,” Marigold clarifies. Matt blinks. The endearment is dropped in so casually, so effortlessly. Mac’s heartbeat doesn’t react at all, as if this is the most normal, natural thing in the world, requiring no more explanation than a pen falling when pushed off a desk.

“Yeah, I am,” Matt says, when the silence stretches too long, and he realises that they are both waiting for him to answer. They don’t seem to get impatient like others do, when he sinks deep into his senses and all the information he’s piecing together. He wonders why it is. Marigold doesn’t seem to be like the type who takes her time, although Mac could go either way. But there’s a stillness to both of them that marks them as _different_ , even though the smell of ozone doesn't roll off of Mac.

“Well, then,” Mac says, very cheerfully. "Plan A it is."

Matt’s stomach drops out. What the– they’re _glad_ that he’s being punished?

“I know,” Marigold agrees. “I’m rather proud of it myself.” She walks across the courtyard, her step light and almost dancing, and Matt clenches his fists.

Marigold hefts an object in her arms. It’s cool on the exterior, and it smells like...ice cream? “If you can’t come to get ice cream on a day like today, we’ll just have to bring it to you!”

Matt blinks. “The nuns let you do that?”

“On the condition that we brought enough for everyone,” Marigold says, and Matt almost chokes.

Saint Agnes has maybe thirty kids in the orphanage, from the smallest toddler, to the seventeen-year olds who are already laying plans for after they leave.

And they brought enough ice cream for _everyone,_ so that they could bring it for Matt.

Matt swallows hard, as Marigold opens the cooler.

“Right. Matt, we have vanilla, lemon, chocolate and – _Mac_. Why is there cookies ‘n’ cream in here?”

“Not everybody is as boring as you when it comes to ice cream, Marigold,” Mac says. “Matt, preference?”

Matt shrugs. “Um. Lemon?”

Marigold laughs. Mac groans.

Matt shifts on his feet, sliding into a stance that Stick showed him. _This_ _is how you stand if you’re about to run like hell, kid._

But then Mac says, in the same mournful tone that Marigold had used at the Turkish place, “I am surrounded by uncultured heathens. What is _wrong_ with you? _Lemon_ flavour?”

“Not all of us are driven by sugar cravings,” Marigold says, voice shimmering with that golden laughter again. A moment later, she presses a cardboard tub into Matt’s hands, and then the spoon. “Here.”

“Slander. Foul slander.”  

Matt licks the spoon in thought. The lemon is good. Cool and sour against the heat of the day, and the affection that nearly hangs in the air between Marigold and her husband. They got the high-quality stuff. But that kind of makes sense; he’s not sure he can picture Mac with junk food of any description.

It’s weird. But there’s something in him that’s softening, that’s aching to be somehow included in that circle of affection between them.

“Dunno,” Matt says thoughtfully. “It’s not slander if she can prove it.”

A pause, and then Mac laughs, a warm, musical sound. Dark brown, rather than gold, like chocolate. “Matt, you and I are going to get along just fine.”

* * *

Spring has turned into summer, and every Monday, Mac and Marigold are at the orphanage at four thirty. Marigold still smells like paper from class, and sometimes, if one of her students had a funny question, she’ll tell Matt about it, resting a casual hand on his shoulder, or drawing him into a half-hug as she talks about the day and asks him about his own. Mac laughs at Matt’s snark, and seems almost as good as Marigold at picking up when Matt is sad; but he plays along if Matt changes the subject, and doesn’t comment on it. He’ll even reach over and squeeze Marigold’s hand, to stop her from probing.

“Matt,” Marigold begins, one afternoon. Her heartbeat is faster than normal, and she’s balancing on the balls of her feet, like Stick did when he was in a ready stance. Maybe she is human?

Matt tenses, but the problem with Mac is that he’s almost as observant as Matt is, and his hand drops to the small of Matt’s back and begins rubbing circles into it.

“How would you feel about us adopting you?” she finishes

Matt opens his mouth, and closes it. And opens it again. “Are you serious?”

The swish of hair that means that Marigold is nodding. “Very serious.”

Matt swallows. _“Why?”_

“Because you need a family,” Mac says. “And we’d love to have you.”

Matt jerks his thumb. “There’s thirty other kids in there that need the same thing,” he says, because _no_. No, they can’t want him, they can’t– he’s awful, he’s a freak, an _accident_ _,_ they can’t want him. It doesn’t make _sense_ for them to want him.

“There are,” Marigold says. “But you are the one that God put in our path. And you are the child that we have come to care for, very, very much.” Matt feels her moving to kneel in front of him, her hands taking his. “Do you want to come with us?”

Matt thinks of the familiar, scratchy sheets of the dormitory, and the soft tones of Maggie’s lullaby. The Hail Marys, the way that he still can’t sleep some nights because of Darren’s snoring, the sensory overload that still takes him sometimes, the nausea that had rocked him last night and had him not finishing the curry. The eyes of Sister Nora and Sister Claudia on him – Matt doesn’t need to be able to see to feel their stares, prying into his back, and they’re not _malicious,_ per se, but it’s like they’re constantly grading him against a rubric that he’s never read.

Things...could be worse.

Marigold’s thumb is swiping circles over the backs of his hands. Her skin is as cool as Mac’s is warm. He thinks about being carried through the streets of Hell's Kitchen back into the orphanage, on a night when nobody sane was outdoors, but Marigold was there anyway, just in case. He thinks about green tea given to him when apple tea was way too sweet; about sour ice cream on a hot spring day. He thinks about the way that she had stood in front of Sister Maggie, and answered every single question, and come back the next week, exactly like she’d promised. The fact that Mac takes Matt’s most flippant questions seriously, answering them in his warm voice, only the light patter-patter of his heartbeat betraying his amusement at Matt’s sass. How they’ve never been startled by the fact that he knows what mood they’re in when they walk into the courtyard, not even once.

It’s a terrifying thought, that he wants to say _yes,_ that this inhuman woman and her husband make him feel safer than he has since Stick.

Stick left, though. 

“Let me think about it,” Matt says.

Marigold’s hair rustles as she nods again, even as her heartbeat slows a little.

_She’s disappointed._

Matt feels a strange warmth curling through his chest at the implication. _She wants me to go with them._

* * *

He asks Sister Maggie about it, the next time the other kids Matt’s age are playing in the courtyard.

“The Professor wants to adopt me.”

“Yes, I know.”

A pause, as Connor Murphy starts up a game of 44 Home _._

“Should I go?”

_Do I have a choice?_

“Do you want to go with them?” Sister Maggie returns. Her voice is composed; her breaths are even. Only her heartbeat is showing that anything’s off at all, a sad _pa-pum, pa-pum_.

“I don’t _know_ _,”_ Matt bites out, frustrated and sharp. “I – why would they _want_ me?”

“Why would they not?” Maggie returns. Her hand rests on Matt’s shoulder lightly. “You’re a charming, intelligent boy. Even sweet, sometimes. When you’re not busy impersonating a cactus.”

“My Mom didn’t want me,” Matt points out. Neither did Stick, but he can't say that.

Sister Maggie’s heart-rate increases a little. “I’m sure that’s not true,” she says, and her heart races.

_Lie._

How? Had Maggie known his Mom?

She continues speaking. “But Professor Marigold and Mr Fenway certainly care about you, very, very much.” Her tone is sad and certain.

_Why is she sad?_

Matt frowns, until the penny drops. “Sister, are you going to _miss_ me?”

She laughs, short and broken. “Oh, Matthew.” One hand combs through his hair, tenderly, and Matt thinks of Marigold. “I love every child who walks through these walls, and I miss every child who leaves. But yes, I most certainly will miss you. Prickly little cactus that you are.” Her hand continues to comb through his hair. “For one thing, we might go three days without questions in catchetism.”

“They’d let me come back to visit, though. Wouldn’t they?”

“That’s a question you’ll have to ask them,” Sister Maggie says. “You think you’ll go with them?”

Matt swallows. “I’m _scared_ _,”_ he admits. “What if they–” _change their minds, what if they hate me, they’ll see that I’m awful…_

“Change is always scary,” she says. “But sometimes, it’s for the best.” She squeezes his hand again, and Matt nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

* * *

When Mac shows up next week, he has a case slung over his back. Matt tilts his head, inhaling the smell.

“Guitar?”

Mac nods. “It’s better than my cello. Not as good as my harp, but still decent.”

Matt huffs a laugh. “Is there anything you can’t play?”

Mac thinks about it, for a moment. “I can't say I've ever managed the bassoon,” he says, pensive. “And as a rule, I’m better at strings than I am woodwinds. Or at percussion, for that matter.”

“Where’s Marigold?”

“Running late, I’m afraid. Several students have ambushed her with questions regarding an assignment, so her class has gone overtime. She should be here in ten minutes.”  

Matt nods. He thinks about letting the silence stretch, until Mac asks the question. But then, Mac never asks about the elephant in the room. One of the key differences between him and Marigold.

“I’m coming with you guys,” Matt says, and Mac’s hands, which had been going up to undo the twist his hair is in, still.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Mac says, slowly. “But I was under the impression that you had some reservations last week.”

Matt shrugs. “I’ve thought things over. I’d like to go with you guys.”

Mac’s smile is twined into his voice. “I’m very glad to hear it, Matt.” His voice is light, and warm, as he unbuckles the case of the guitar. “It occurs to me that I’ve never played for you before. Any requests?”

Mac doesn’t even blink when at Matt’s request. They’re roaring ' _be gone with you, you shod and shady senators_ ,' Matt’s high voice piping against Mac’s deep tones, when Matt hears Marigold’s laughter chiming at the orphanage gate. Seconds later, she launches into a harmony, and Matt smirks. Definitely not totally human. But there are worse things in the world than having another friend with heightened senses.

He files it away for food for thought, as her footsteps bring her into the courtyard, and she tosses her bag off her shoulder, grabbing his hands like she wants to dance. Matt laughs, even as he treads on her toes, and Mac’s voice shakes with laughter around the lyrics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn't be a fic with Elves in it if they didn't all have many names.
> 
> Professor Marigold Rivers: aka Goldberry, to Hobbits, and Neniel, to much of the Sindarin-speaking world. 'WillowWand' is her IM handle, and is taken from Frodo's spontaneous paean to her in the chapter of 'In the House of Tom Bombadil' in Lord of the Rings.
> 
> Mac Fenway: Makalaurë Kanafinwë of the House of Finwë. Aka Maglor, son of Fëanor and Nerdanel. ForgingGold is his IM handle.
> 
> Finno: Findekáno, aka Fingon, son of Nolofinwë and Maglor's cousin. Originally nicknamed Káno, before I realised that there were far too many 'Káno' ending names in the house of Finwë, between Nolofinwë, all his sons, and Maglor.


	2. one foot on sea and one on shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maglor and Goldberry take Matt home with them, and become deeply baffled. Did the nuns fail to explain the concept of adoption?
> 
> (Matt's not sure why _he's _the confusing one in this equation.)__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever,_  
>  _One foot in sea, and one on shore; to one thing constant, never,_  
>  _So sigh not so, and let them go, and be thou blithe and bonny,_  
>  _Converting all your songs of woe, into, hey, nonny, nonny! –_  
>    _Sigh Not So,_ Maurissa Tancharoen, Jed Whedon

 

_13 July, 2000_

“We can't offer him a normal life,” he says, his forehead wrinkling with worry. There’s no guilt in his voice, though, for which she is very grateful. "There's no way we could."

Neniel lifts their twined hands and kisses his knuckles. “No, we can’t give him a normal life,” she agrees, as they walk down the street to the apartment. “But he’s not normal either. And we can give him a home.”

They’re halfway down the street by the time Maglor sighs. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

* * *

_8th September, 2000_

Matt’s fingers have been clenching and unclenching into fists since they got into the cab, Maglor notices. Motion sickness, maybe?

“Matt,” he asks, tapping lightly on Matt’s fingers. They spring out of the closed fist like Maglor had scalded him, and Maglor suppresses the urge to sigh. He never thought he’d meet a twitchier child than Elrond just after Sirion. And isn’t _that_ a troubling thought?

“Yeah?”

“Is it the car ride that’s giving you trouble?”

Matt’s spine abruptly straightens, like a marionette whose strings have just been pulled.

“I’m fine,” Matt says.

Maglor raises his eyebrows at him. Matt’s face is wan, the normally moon-pale skin almost ash-grey, and he has been squirming non-stop. If he won’t admit it, though…

He catches Neniel’s eye, and raises his eyebrows. She smiles back at him, and begins, very, very softly,  to hum a walking song, one of her father’s from Cuiviénen, of the stars, the fresh breezes blowing off of the lake, the world still young and new. She’s careful to keep her voice bare of any power, and her song so muted that Maglor can barely hear it, over the rush of the traffic outside. But Matt’s hearing must be _truly_ superior, because as she hums, Matt slowly relaxes, inch by inch. He leans into Neniel’s arm, resting his head against her bicep, and Maglor feels Neniel’s elation surge through their bond. _Maglor! Maglor, look!_

 _I see, love,_ he says, smiling at her over Matt’s head. _I see_.

“How do you feel about eggs?” Maglor asks, before Matt can overthink it.

Matt blinks, and straightens up again – _dammit, didn’t see that coming_ – turning his head towards Maglor. “Um.”

“Do you like how they taste? There were some foods you hated at Saint Agnes, no?”

There’s a look of utter surprise that flashes across Matt’s face, before he looks somewhat guarded again. But eventually, after running his hand across the grip of his cane several times, he replies.

“I like eggs. I just – stuff with preservatives, with tons of chemicals, I can’t handle it.”

The cabbie snorts in the front seat, and Matt flinches. Maglor catches the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and gives him a look that had once given even Celegorm pause.

The cabbie’s eyes widen, and he returns his gaze to the road, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. As he should. Who shames a child for  _food intolerances?_  

“I can’t say I’m all that fond of processed foods either,” Neniel says. Her tone is casual, as though she’s discussing the weather. _Love, if you make him crash, today will get vastly more complicated_. “Are you thinking of omelettes?”

“Mmhm. I think we still have mushrooms in the fridge,” Maglor shifts in his seat and tries to lean his head back against the head-rest. The attempt fails miserably. This is not a cab built for Elves, or even particularly tall Men. The fact that a backpack full of Matt's books and school equipment is sitting on his feet does not help matters. He suppresses a sigh and goes back through the catalogue of the last grocery shop. Mushrooms, tomatoes, spinach, cheese, although perhaps he should wait to get a better gauge on how sensitive Matt’s sense of taste was before including cheese in any dishes...

 _Maybe some meat,_ Neniel chimes in. _He’s very skinny._

Maglor looks at Matt out of the corner of his eyes, and nods. _I think we’ve got ham._

Neniel nods, and then leans forward to tap the cabbie on the shoulder. “You can let us out here, thank you.” The words are polite, but her tone is still a little cool.

They pull over, and Neniel pays the driver, while Maglor gets out of the car. He slips on the backpack and offers his hand to Matt.

Matt does not take it, and Maglor fights the urge to sigh. There is no way that the child who successfully navigated two city blocks to find his way to the park without incident after midnight can’t tell where his hand is. Surely.

Then again, knowledge _is_ power, and children do not become skittish around adults with power without a damn good reason. So he says, “My hand’s in front of you, if you want it.”

The cover given, Matt reaches out and takes it. Neniel is beside him in a moment, with Matt’s bag of clothes and personal effects slung over her hip. The other, filled with the Braille bibles, and the textbooks that Sister Maggie had packed up, is strapped to Maglor's back. Her eyes are warm as she threads her hand through Maglor’s free hand, and squeezes it, her lips quirking into a smile. _We'll figure it out,_ she whispers. The cabbie pulls back into the traffic.

“Where are we?” Matt asks.

“Northernmost corner of West 51st and 9th,” Maglor says, pulling himself back into the moment. “Come on in. I suppose you don’t want to take the stairs?”

Matt shakes his head, and Neniel ruffles his hair. “I’ll meet you up there,” she tells him, before walking over to the staircase.

Matt tilts his head up at him, and frowns. “What’s that about?”

 _Blunt, so long as he’s doing the asking,_ Maglor reflects wryly.

“She doesn’t like confined spaces,” he says, pushing away memories of a shaking, gasping Neniel crying into his shoulder.

Matt’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, as he cranes his neck up towards Maglor. A holdover from before the accident?  

“Really? But she seems so...so…”

Maglor shrugs. “Everyone has their demons, Matt,” he says, pushing the elevator button. Matt rocks onto his heels like he’s been slapped, instead of offered an old but perfectly true platitude. Maglor frowns. What’s _that_ about?  

“Yeah, I guess so,” Matt says, as the elevator dings, and they step across the threshold.

* * *

Neniel is waiting for them when they get out, smiling at them as they emerge. She reaches out and twines her fingers through Maglor’s, squeezing them, and sets her other hand on Matt’s shoulder. “We’re over on your left,” she says, “about thirty paces from the elevator. It’s 15A, if you need to ask anyone.”

Matt nods, and Neniel continues to narrate. “You’re standing on the welcome mat.”

“I stepped on my welcome?” Matt asks, in a very small voice. Maglor blinks, mouth opening reflexively to soothe the shyness in his voice, before he sees the smirk hovering at the corners of his mouth. The penny drops.

“That was _bad_ ,” he tells the ten-year old. “Truly, absolutely, terrible.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Spare key is in a fold sewn into the underside in the top right hand corner,” Neniel continues, her grin widening. “We’ve been meaning to see about getting a key cut for you, but things have been a little busy, I’m afraid.”

Neniel turns the key in the lock. “Do you want to for us to walk you around the space?”

Matt nods, leaning into the touch of her hand, and Maglor fights the urge to sigh. _You trust us that far – far enough to come home with us – but not with what you can do? You’re a puzzle, Matt._

“This is the living room,” Maglor says, as Neniel starts walking Matt around the living room. “Couch at your three o’clock, more couch, coffee table at your nine o’clock... more couch.” He’d forgotten how short a ten-year old’s stride was, apparently.

“...why is your couch that big?” Matt asks, some bewilderment in his face.

“I have a tall brother,” Maglor says. Neniel almost chokes on a laugh – _yes, you're_ so _petite, Maglor_ – and Maglor pulls a face at her. _Hush._ Matt's eyebrows are already rising very high; perhaps he heard Neniel stifle the laugh. “And you’ve reached the end of the couch,” Maglor says. “At your ten – no, I’m wrong, your eleven – darling, would you – thank you!” Neniel takes Matt’s hand and puts it on the seat of the arm-chair, eyes still bright with mirth. “Anyway, that thing you’re touching is the armchair, where Marigold often does a lot of her work,” he continues. “And to your two o’clock, in between the armchair and the couch, we have a bean bag. We thought you might like it.”

Matt hums. The sound is noncommittal, but he’s smiling. “What are the colours?”

“The bean bag is a pale, sort of cloudy blue,” Maglor obliges. “The couch is a dark red, like good wines.” Neniel snorts at that, and Maglor grins at her. “The armchair is the colour of cream, and the fabric is a horribly itchy kind of wool, which _someone_  refuses to let me replace. I don’t recommend it.” Matt snickers, and Neniel’s smile broadens even further. “The couch is good, though. That’s a very soft leather,” Maglor says, crossing his arms. “How about we do your room next, and then the kitchen?”

Matt thinks about this for a moment, and nods. Neniel steers him out of the living room, and Matt’s cane scrapes along the floor, as Neniel steers him to the bedroom.

“Here we are.”

* * *

The room is quiet, Matt notices. That’s the first thing that strikes him. Floors and floors above the traffic, the only sound that breaks the quiet is the sound of Marigold breathing, and Mac’s voice as he narrates the room to Matt. Bed along the northern wall; along the western wall, a large dresser, and a small closet. Along the eastern wall, a desk with a long book shelf mounted into the wall above it, and a tall bookcase to the right of it. The room smells like wood polish, like lilies and ozone, fabric softener and Mac’s cologne.

They’ve been spending a lot of time in here, setting it up, Matt realises.

He runs a hand over the desk, and tries to not to think about what Stick would say. _Soft, Matty. Going soft_.

“It smells like wood polish,” he says.

“The desk belonged to one of my nephews, once,” Marigold says.

“It needed a little TLC, but it’s come up quite nicely.” Mac is smiling; he can hear it in his voice.

Matt sits down heavily in the chair. The wood feels smooth and old under his fingers.

“This – shouldn't this stay with your family?” he asks.

“It _is_ staying with family,” Marigold says, a note of confusion in her voice, and Matt swallows hard.

“Oh.”

If his mind rules his body, then he doesn’t have to cry. Matt clenches his fingers into fists, his nails digging into his palm, and that helps for a bit, helps take his mind off the hot tears pinpricking at his eyes. Marigold steps further into the room, and sets the bag down on the bed.

“Do you want some help unpacking?” she asks. Her voice is soft.

Matt shakes his head, getting up again and stepping over to the bed. “No, I can do it. I– I–”

 _Shit,_ he blinked, he blinked and the tears are spilling over out of his useless eyes. He can hear Marigold sitting down on the bed, and Mac hurrying across the room to the chair, kneeling beside it and wrapping his arms around Matt.

Matt stiffens. Mac’s shirt is soft flannel, worn and well-loved, and his hand – warm, warm, how is he so _warm?_ If anyone else were this warm, they’d be in bed with a fever – is stroking through his hair, the motion rhythmic. His beard tickles against Matt's cheek. Matt clenches his hand into fists, and Mac sighs, before his arms retract, and he stands to his feet.

“Sorry. Call it a reflex. I won’t do that again unless you tell me to,” he says.

“It’s okay.”

Mac’s voice is skeptical. “You go tense as a string about to snap when you’re okay?” Matt swallows, and Mac speaks again, his voice gentling. “Matt. We want you to feel comfortable here. And I realise that it’s going to take time, while we get used to each other. But – it’s very, very hard for us to make things better if you tell us ‘everything’s fine’, when everything is _not_ fine. If you have a problem, talk to us about it. It’s why we’re here.”

_But you’ll get tired of me. Your patience will run out, you’ll get sick of having a kid who’s a freak, you’ll get tired of me. You won’t mean that in a year, or in two years._

Marigold _might_. Maybe. She’d held Matt when he cried, and had shown up the next day, and every Monday after that. But that could change too, couldn’t it? Stick had been there, too. Until he hadn’t been.

It is with this in mind that Matt smiles at Mac.

“Okay.”

Mac’s heartbeat is a little unhappy – _guess I was right about him getting tired –_ but he nods, his hair swishing as he stands. “I think we could all use something to eat. I’ll go see about lunch.”

Matt nods. “Sure,” he says. He’s dubious about the speaking in _we_ – it reminds him of the doctors and nurses from the hospital, who insisted on speaking in plurals – but picking a fight over it isn’t going to help anything go faster.

The rest of the morning is spent unpacking the sports bag with them. Only half the piles of clothing go into the chest of drawers; the others stay on the bed, because they’re patched in several places, or fraying, or too small. Inevitably, some of his softest clothing ends up there, and Matt only tries to rescue a few of the items while Marigold has her back turned. From the kitchen, Matt hears Mac humming, in his warm voice, the notes that make Matt smell roses and golden light and caramel. _He does it too?_

“My sister is calling us tonight,” Marigold says, as they finish the top drawer. “My middle sister, I mean. She’s dying to meet you. Do you want to say hello?”

Matt blinks. “Um. Sure?”

“You don’t have to,” Marigold says.

“I don’t?”

Marigold shakes her head. “No. I asked if you wanted to. Do you?”

Matt bites his lip, and the silence stretches painfully, until he shakes his head. “No.”

It comes out much smaller and softer than he’d intended.

“Okay,” Marigold says. “Okay. That’s fine.”

* * *

Mac’s heartbeat is happy again as he calls them into the kitchen. _Good_. The smell of mushrooms, tomatoes, spinach, ham, and eggs all hang heavily in the air, crowding out Marigold’s papers, and the flowers on the coffee table. He’d thought that he was mishearing, but apparently Mac really did crack an entire carton into the pan.

“This is all just for lunch?” Matt asks.

“You’re growing,” Marigold says. “Besides, I forgot to have breakfast this morning.” She kisses Mac’s cheek, and slides a knife and a fork across the counter to Matt, as Matt slowly clambers onto the stool. Moments later, a plate is slid in front of him, and a glass set down.

“The good news, everybody. I didn't burn it,” Mac says.

Marigold scoffs. “You haven’t burnt a meal in ages, love.”

“And someday, my brothers will acknowledge that,” Mac says, padding around the counter to sit on the stool at Mac’s left. “Matt, omelette is directly in front of you. Glass of water is at your two o’clock.”

Matt takes a bite, and his eyes widen. Apparently, Mac had decided to put everything into the omelette.

“‘S good,” he says at last. “How’d you get the tomatoes in without overfilling it?”

“Cherry tomatoes. Well, that and practise,” Mac says. “Can you cook anything, Matt?”

Matt shakes his head, after a moment. “Dad let me stir things, or take them out of the microwave. Then the accident happened.”

“Hmm,” Mac hums. “I can teach you. If you’d like.”

Matt smiles, and for a second, there’s a wild, startling thought that skims across his mind, quick as a breeze and gone almost as quickly: _maybe this can work._

But then the sound of Stick’s footsteps as he left the basement seems to replay in Matt’s mind, and Matt shakes the first thought off. Stuff like this doesn’t last in his world, it just doesn’t.

...But that means that any skill like cooking is definitely something Matt should learn. So that when it crumbles, he’s ready. Right?

“I’d like,” Matt says. Then he tilts his head, and frowns at Marigold, where she’s perched on the kitchen counter, even though there’s a perfectly reasonable stool. “Hey, how come you’re eating it with your hands?”

“Why would I not?” Marigold returns, licking the last of the salt off her fingers. “I can eat crêpes with my hands, and nobody blinks, but eat an omelette with your hands and suddenly everyone’s calling you–”

“Savage,” Mac says, his tone serene.

“Snob,” she laughs back, and Matt frowns. The flirting is  _still_ weird.

“What’s a crêpe?” he asks, instead of sighing. That starts Marigold off on a story about her attempt to double a recipe gone horribly right when they lived in France.

* * *

The question of whether they’ll let him visit Saint Agnes is answered the next day. Matt wakes up on sandpapery sheets to the room warmed by sunlight, and the sharp scent of Mac’s cologne in the air. The cars outside are roaring past; Marigold is moving around the apartment outside, occasionally flipping through pages and sipping something. Reading something?

The door-frame creaks slightly; Mac is leaning against it, Matt realises.

He sits up.

“Good morning,” Mac says.

There’s a moment where Matt can’t quite speak.

_It’s not a dream._

He’s not in the orphanage anymore.

It really happened. They’ve really taken him home with them.

“Morning,” he says. He can’t quite stop the smile, so he aims it in Mac’s direction. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost nine in the morning,” Mac says. Matt gropes around on the bedside table, clicking his tongue against his teeth until he hears the sound bounce off the glasses.

“Sunday, right?”

“Mm. We were wondering if you wanted to go to Mass?”

Matt slides the glasses on, and is glad that it hides his blink.

“You’re not Catholic,” Matt points out. Aside from the morning after the last time he’d snuck out to the park, neither Marigold nor Mac have ever come to Mass.

There’s a rustle of hair as Mac shrugs.

“No, I’m not. But you are.”

It’s kind. It’s thoughtful. It makes even more warmth curl through his chest.

Matt shakes his head, as he thinks of Stick’s voice, and feels a spike of fear. It’s too good.

_Nobody’s ever felt sorry for you, and nobody ever will._

“Not today?” Matt squeaks out.

“Alright,” Mac says, a touch of surprise in his tone. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Hm. How about you get dressed, and we’ll see about finding breakfast.”

Despite the way it’s phrased, it’s definitely not a suggestion. Matt sits up, swings his feet onto the floor. The laminate is cool under the soles of his feet, as he pads over to the dresser. Mac makes a shocked noise, high and startled in his throat, before he speaks. “Matt? What happened to your arms?”

Matt freezes, and then opens the top drawer of the dresser when Mac takes a step forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mac’s steps are soft in the room, as he walks to Matt and crouches. “Matt? May I touch your arms?”

Matt tenses and nods, ready for – he's not sure. Something like Stick's grip, maybe. But Mac’s callused fingertips are soft as they probe from his shoulders to his wrists, the warmth of his hand soothing against the inflamed skin. “Matthew? The orphanage didn’t mention any allergies, but they might have missed something. Is there something I should know?”

Matt bites his lip. _Oh, nothing, just the sheets you bought me feel like sandpaper on my skin._ Yeah, _that_ sounds grateful.

“Matt?” Mac’s voice is hopeful, coaxing. “Please, little one. Tell me.”

The silence stretches between them, aching, like a stretch that’s gone on for so long that the muscles have begun to cramp. Mac’s fingers are very still on Matt’s arm, and his heartbeat is up. He’s worried. This kind, gentle man is _worried_ for Matt, his heartbeat sounds the way Dad’s used to sometimes, after the accident, and that’s all wrong, that’s _so_ wrong, and what happened to Dad can’t happen to them, it _can’t_ –

But the silence stretches on, and on, like the span of the sky, and the longer it stretches, the faster Mac’s heart beats.

Matt gives in. He’s too weak to do anything else, apparently, he thinks, as he hears: “I just...have sensitive skin,” tumble from of his mouth.

Mac’s heartbeat slows a little. “That explains some of the inflammation. Allergies?”

“No, not allergies. Just – some fabrics irritate it.”

Mac sighs, but it doesn’t sound disappointed. It sounds – _relieved?_

“Alright. You go shower, and I’ll strip the bed.”

Matt shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that.” He’s been fine on cotton since the accident. Well, okay, not _fine_ , but he’s used to it. It’s not a problem.

“There are certain things that children should get,” Mac says, already moving towards the bed and stripping the pillow-case. “And a comfortable place to sleep is one of them.”

Matt blinks. There’s no hesitation in Mac’s voice, there’s no questioning in it that Matt deserves this – this _care_. “I’m not a kid,” Matt tries to explain, because he’s not a kid, he’s a soldier, that’s what Stick always told him.

“Your adoption paperwork says otherwise,” Mac says, a note of laughter in his voice. “Go on. Go and shower.”

* * *

“Wait,” Marigold says over breakfast. Mac is working through a cup of coffee, while Matt is luxuriating in toast. No preservatives. No chemical wrongness that he could taste on his tongue. Just a blissful combination of honey, butter and salt-sugar-flour. He has no idea where they got it from, but it’s _amazing_. “The sheets are cotton.”

“Look at his arms, sweet. The redness speaks for itself.”

Matt shakes his head. Honestly, the sheer amount of fuss they’re raising about this is weird. Not to mention that his skin feels fine after the shower, and nowhere near as bad as when he got up this morning. It can’t still be _that_ pink, can it?

“No, no,” Marigold persists, taking another drink of her orange juice. “The sheets are cotton. But so are half of his shirts. We’ve found the answer to the scratching question.”

Matt tilts his head back. “The scratching question?”

Mac huffs a laugh. “We noticed a few weeks into the visits that you’d scratch at the collar of your shirt. Not all the time, but often enough. It didn’t seem to be a reflex, and Sister Maggie told us it wasn’t eczema, or allergies. We were rather puzzled.”

“May as well get new shirts while we’re out,” Marigold agrees.

“But–” Matt protests. They’ve already done so much, and the more they’ll do, the quicker they’ll get tired of him, and Matt really doesn’t want to hear Marigold’s voice dip with disappointment and say, “I expected too much from you.”   

“Feeding, clothing, and sheltering you _is_ what we signed up for, Matt,” Mac says, and his tone is dry, but there’s something steely underneath it. Matt freezes, and Mac’s voice gentles, as though trying to calm a frightened animal. “Finish your toast, and we’ll make a plan.”

* * *

The table under his cheek, and a gunshot ringing out, the frantic scramble to the alley, and kneeling.

Dad’s face under his: the broken jaw, the hole punched squarely through his forehead, the broken nose, all tacky with blood, and no, no, _no_ –

Matt wakes up, and rolls over to bury his face in his pillow.

Silk. The pillow sleeve is silk, like the sheets that he’s sleeping on. The blankets are soft fleece. Mac had made Matt trail his fingers over more bedspreads and sheets than Matt thought could even exist, and it had been hard to focus, with the synthpop song blaring over the store stereo, and the smell of too conflicting scents from the makeup aisle. Matt had ended up focussing on the drum of Mac’s heartbeat to ground himself, the way he’d used to do with Dad's heartbeat, sometimes, after the accident.

The pillow sleeve is silk, and it soaks up the tears, as Matt tries to muffle the crying.

There’s a creak of the door, and Matt feels the air currents moving, but does hear not footsteps. Marigold, then.

She kneels at the bedside, and Matt rolls over, so that his back is towards her. But that doesn’t seem to daunt her, as she reaches out and begins combing through his hair, a song already pouring through the air. It’s in a language, this time, not one of the wordless songs she sings, but Matt has no clue what language it is. Matt feels water rippling under his fingers; smells grass after a rain. Eventually, the sobs slow to hiccups, and Marigold’s hand is still combing through his hair, the motion steady and tireless.

“Sorry,” Matt whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” There’s a lot more, actually: sorry he got his Dad killed, sorry he’s so pathetic that he’s still crying at night, sorry that he made them buy silk sheets–

_(even if they feel blissfully soft against his skin)–_

– he’s made _so_ much trouble for them, but that's what Matt  _does_ , he causes trouble, that's what happens when you have the devil inside you, and coming with them was a mistake, because what happens when they see that too?

_I expected too much of you._

There’s a whisper of movement; Marigold’s hair smells like lilies, and it tickles Matt’s ear as she presses a kiss to his temple.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Matt,” she says, and her heartbeat is steady, _truthful._

Matt shakes his head, because that’s so untrue, so untrue, and she should know that.

“It’s my fault.”

“Shhh. No.” She shifts on the floor, as though she’s uncomfortable, and _that’s_ Matt’s fault too, that she’s there and he’s still making trouble for her, still causing _so_ much trouble. “No, no, Matt. No guilt for living. Not when your father wanted that more than anything.”

Matt’s sob catches in his breath. “Who says this is about my Dad?”

“Common sense,” Marigold says. “Besides, I recognise the signs. I have experience with survivor guilt.”

Matt rolls back over to face her, startled. “You _do?”_

She nods. “So many. So many who died while I lived,” she says, her voice distant and sad, like she’s somewhere faraway. “There was a war, you see.”

Matt reaches out, and finds her hand, and squeezes it. “‘M sorry.”

“Matthew,” she says. “I realise that I’m repeating myself, but I’ll say it again. First, you have done nothing to apologise for. Second, if you are blaming yourself for events that happened long before you were born–”

Matt huffs. “I’m not,” he says. “‘M not stupid, I wasn’t there. Can’t be my fault. But I’m sad that happened to you.”

“Ah. English can be so terribly imprecise like that,” Marigold sighs. “Thank you, little one.” A hesitation, like she was about to speak.

Matt sighs. “Just say it.”

She shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t matter.” Her hand starts stroking through his hair again, as she begins to sing. It’s not the roses-gold-light-caramel lullaby; her voice is pitched lower for this one. Matt tastes cool water, and the song seems to go deeper than his ears, reverberating in his bones, and soothing his heart.

 _Marigold is magic,_ Matt realises, before his eyes close, one last coherent thought skimming across his mind, a stone skimming across a lake, before the drowsiness pulls him under. _Okay, then._

* * *

The next morning, Matt wakes up and stumbles into the living room, as he hears Marigold and Mac moving around, talking quietly. Mac is sitting on the couch, scribbling on something, and Marigold is – Matt’s not sure what she’s doing, but it involves a lot of paper rustling.

“Hello, Matt,” she says. “We were just talking about coming to wake you.”

The sound of papers being packed into a bag, something snapping closed. Matt clicks his tongue against his teeth, and listens harder. Ah, a ring binder.

“You’re going?”

A rustle of hair as she nods. “It’s Monday, so I’ve got a full day at work. A meeting with a research committee, a student whose thesis I’m advising, and then two classes in the afternoon. I should be back around five.”

Matt nods. “Okay.”

“It’s about seven now,” Mac supplies. How'd he know that's what Matt was going to ask? “School starts at eight, doesn’t it?” Matt nods. “Right. You’d best eat something, then. When’s the lunch hour?”

“Noon.”

Mac hums and stands, moving into the kitchen. “Alright. Go and get dressed.”

“I thought you said I had to eat.”

“You do. But I need time to make breakfast,” Mac says, and the wry smile is back in his voice, so Matt relaxes fractionally. A frying pan lands on the kitchen counter with a clatter. “If you aren’t eating until noon, I can’t just feed you toast and butter.”

“You don’t ha–”

“Yes, I do.” The sound of more ingredients hitting the counter. Bacon and mushrooms and bread. The sound of a kiss being planted on skin – when did Marigold get over there? Moving that silently was just _freaky_. “Go on, go get dressed, Matt.”

“One moment. I'm about to head off. Have a good day, love.” Another kiss, and then the scent of lilies is moving, as Marigold walks back to Matt. She draws him into a hug, and her movements and touch are delicate, like Matt’s made of glass. Matt hugs her back, leaning into the touch. “You too, little one.”

Matt feels a warmth flicker through his chest, and he leans into the hug. Just for a second. Stick would be disappointed, but there’s no change there, and Marigold’s skirt is soft against Matt’s face.

* * *

“So how’d it go?” Sister Maggie asks him that day, at lunch. Matt is not _quite_ inhaling the leftover soup Mac had packed, but it’s a close thing. “I didn’t get to ask you at Mass yesterday.”

Matt thinks of omelettes, and steely insistence in Mac’s voice. Of warm fingers on his arm, and the smell of lilies and a kiss to his temple.

“They’re nice,” Matt says to her. “They’re really, really nice.”

“Well, of course they are. We wouldn’t have let you go with them, otherwise. I’m asking how it went.”

Matt thinks about it. “Weirdly,” he manages, eventually.

“How so?”

Silk sheets. _Little one_ , in Mac’s rich, beautiful voice, words soaked in gentleness, in concern. A lullaby that rippled like a waterfall. _No guilt for living,_ and Marigold’s voice had been soft as velvet, but there had been steel in her words.

“I think they like me,” Matt says at last, committing the puzzle to the air.

Maggie gives a little hum. “You know, it would be unprofessional of me to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Good thing you’re not telling me that, then,” Matt says, returning to his soup.

“Indeed.”


	3. with silver bracelets on her wrists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: The one where secrets come out, and Maglor and Goldberry adopt unconventional parenting techniques.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inner screenwriting lecturer is scolding me for using too much dialogue in this chapter. Ah, well. Onwards! 
> 
> The amazing, beautiful, brilliant bunn did fanart of a younger Goldberry. You can find that here. http://martial-quill.tumblr.com/post/180408481069/cycas-o-slender-as-a-willow-wand-o-clearer
> 
>  
> 
> _Suddenly I turned around and she was standin’ there,_  
>  _With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair,_  
>  _She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns,_  
>  _Come in, she said, I’ll give you shelter from the storm._
> 
>  
> 
> – _Shelter from the Storm,_ Bob Dylan

“Dude,” Mary whispers in his ear, as he walks out towards the school gates, dodging around Sister Nora, towards the sound of Mac’s humming. Every day, after school, Mac has been waiting outside the gates, usually scribbling in a notebook as he hums. Matt thinks he’s composing something. “That’s your new Dad? The one with the really long hair and the beard?”

It’s pointless to pretend with Mary. She’d seen him trip Alistair not long after she came to the orphanage a few years back, when Alistair had almost teased her to the point where she was in tears, and they’ve been friends ever since. She helped, sometimes, when everything was too much.

So instead of feigning ignorance, Matt nods.

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s gorgeous.”

Matt wrinkles his nose, and waves one hand in front of his sunglasses. “Thanks for cluing me in.”

“No problem. Also he’s freakishly tall. He must be 6”6, or something.”

“Seven,” Matt corrects her, and he frowns. It’s not like Mary to underestimate a distance. “He’s seven feet six.”

Mary shakes her head, her hair rustling. “No way, he doesn’t look that tall.” Another few steps, and they are past the gates. Mac’s heartbeat is up a little.

Has he heard them talking? He does have good hearing, but he’s not that easily fazed.

“Hi, Matt. Who’s your friend?”

Mary squeaks. And then clears her throat, before trying again. “Um, I’m Mary. I’m from the orphanage. Nice to meet you.”

Mac’s smile is audible, his heartbeat slowing. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mary. You can call me Mac, if you like. How has the day been?”

“Um, okay? Sister Dora gave us a maths test,” Mary says.

“How’d it go?”

“Pretty good, I think,” Matt says. “Mostly Pythagoras and more area questions.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I know you do,” Matt says, smirking up at Mac. There’s a sense of abruptly stilled movement that Matt has come to work out comes with Mac restraining himself from ruffling Matt’s hair, or hugging him.

“The blind jokes aren’t funny.”

“You’re still smiling.”

“Mary! Get over here!”

Sister Nora’s voice cracks through the air like a whip, and Mary sighs. “I gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Mac.”

“Nice meeting you too, Mary.” Mary wove back into the group from Saint Agnes, and Matt slips his hand around Mac’s hand. It’s not as good as a finger over the wrist, but it’ll do in a pinch. “Hey, Mac? How tall are you?”

Mac hums. “Somewhere beyond six feet? I can’t say I think too much about it.” His pulse is thumping against Matt’s hand, fast and guilty. He’s lying. Why is he lying about his _height?_ “Why do you ask, Matt?”

Matt shrugs. “I’m curious about what you look like.”

“Ah. Black hair, grey eyes, pale, tall. Oh, and I have a beard. I look very typical for where I’m from, honestly. Marigold’s appearance is much more remarkable.”

Matt tilts his head to the side. He had wondered.

“What does Marigold look like?”

“She’s lovely,” Mac says. Matt pulls a face at the smile in Mac’s voice, and Mac chuckles. “Alright, fine, I’ll keep it brief and unpoetic. Long, curling blond hair. Her skin is a golden brown colour, like honey. She has green eyes, and a hooked nose. She’s quite tall for a woman. And she has a smile that could melt ice.”

“As tall as you?” Matt asks, playing dumb, ignoring both the metaphor and the fondness in Mac’s voice, as they start to walk down the street.

“No, not as tall as me,” Mac replies, with something suspicious in his voice. “Why the curiosity about what we look like? Now, I mean, rather than earlier?”

Matt shrugs. “Mary said something about it. I was curious.”

“Ah.” There was somehow a world of meaning in that one expression, and Matt thought he could peel off about the first three layers. Mild embarrassment, a knowingness, and amusement mixed in. Beyond that, he had no clue. “It occurs to me that there is a conversation we need to have with Marigold when we get home.”

“I’m too young for The Talk,” Matt says.

“Not for this one, you’re not,” Mac says. “How long have you known Mary?”

“Subtle topic change there.’

“Thank you.”

* * *

Marigold is home when they get there, her bag already on the coffee table; from the sound of typing, she must be in the master bedroom, typing on the computer. The sound of typing abruptly stills when they leave the elevator. Matt’s jaw slackens.

 _I knew her hearing was good, but_ wow _._

The unlatching of the door chain, the creak of the door.

“Welcome home, boys,” Marigold says. The door slinks shut behind it. “I take it that it’s time?”

Matt tenses, and Mac’s hand lands on his shoulder, gently.

“Yes, I think so. Hush, Matt, it’s alright. You’re not in trouble.”

“Far from it,” Marigold says. “But given what Mac has said to me, it sounds like you’re ready for a talk we’ve been meaning to give you.”

Matt raises his hand. “If this is about where babies come from, Dad covered that already.”

There is silence for a beat, before Marigold laughs, and Matt grins. “No, not that talk. Although we might revisit that one in a couple of years.”

Matt wrinkles his nose, and Marigold’s hand combs through his hair. Matt leans into the touch, feeling the knot of anxiety loosen in his chest.

“Okay, so if it’s not that one, what is it?”

Mac takes a deep breath. “Matt, when you met Marigold, she sang for you, didn’t she?”

Matt nods. “Yeah.”

“Did anything...happen?”

Matt nods. “She said something about her having a technique that could make the things she was singing about more real, and that’s why I was tasting caramel. And smelling roses, even though we were at the park on Pier 84.”

“Matt, did she tell you where she got that technique from?”

Matt frowns, combing back through memory. “You said it was something cultural?” he says, turning to Marigold, and her hair rustles.

“Yes, I did. The thing is…”

“Oh, there’s no good way to say this,” Mac cut in. “Matt, we’re not human.”

_...yeah, I know._

_Oh, wait. They don’t know that I know._

“Really?” Matt asks, making his voice go high with surprise. “Wow! I had no clue! That’s so surprising!”

Another long pause.

“Alright, how long have you known?”

For the first time, Matt thinks he might be hearing tiredness in Marigold’s voice. He flinches back. He didn’t know Marigold could get tired.

“Um. Since like the third time we met?” he admits. His face drops towards his chest, and he takes a step back. “I mean – it’s not everyone who smells like ozone.”

“You can smell that?” Surprise in her voice, now. “Not many people can. Well, except among our people.”

“I can smell a lot of things,” Matt says. “My other senses work harder, since the accident.”

Well, it’s true. It’s not the whole truth, but then–

Guilt swallows him.

 _They’re trusting you._

Matt has grown up in Fogwell’s, with the sound of fists slamming into flesh and punching bags. He knows the way people stand when there’s a threat, knows the way boxers size people up. Matt knows danger, and admitting to enhanced anything is danger, there is a reason he has never told the nuns, even if plenty of them suspect that he’s not as helpless as he appears.

But.

Admitting that you’re not human is dangerous too.

It takes three times for his mouth to open and close, and the silence is thick in the air, as Marigold and Mac wait for him. That patience that they’ve always exercised, that so few adults have, which is so easily explained now.

“I have super senses,” Matt says. “I can hear anything. Everything. I can hear heartbeats, fights going on three blocks away, I can smell adrenaline and tears – it’s not a question of what I do sense, the right question is ‘what don’t I sense?’”

Mac’s heartbeat is a little faster, but not as surprised as Matt thought it would be.

“Heartbeats?” he inquires.

Matt nods.

“Hmm.”

“What does _hmm_ mean?”

“ _Hmm_ means that I am thinking, and I think you know that,” Mac says, a slightly absent tone to his voice. “Is that why you took my hand earlier?”

There’s no anger in the tone. No irritation, either. That would make it easier. Just curiosity, and beneath that, a kindness that makes Matt’s cheeks flush with shame, as he turns away.

“’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Mac’s foot-steps are loud in the quiet of the apartment, as he crosses the room towards Matt. He crouches, and his breath is warm in the air, blasting past Matt’s ears.

“Matt? Matt, could you turn around for us, please?”

Matt swallows.

_Murdocks never quit._

Matt turns around.

“Are you mad?” he asks. He means it to come out brave and strong, like his Dad, but instead, it sounds flat and angry.

Mac’s chuckle is rich and – sad? It’s sad. “No, little one. Of course not.”

“But...I was listening to your heartbeat.” Why isn’t Mac mad?

“Yes, you were. And I’m very curious as to why.”

Matt licks his lips. “Um. People’s heartbeats show...a lot of stuff.”

“Such as?” The tone is mild, but there’s an edge beneath it, velvet over steel again. Like Marigold. Matt feels like Dad, trapped in a corner, but Mac hasn’t lost his temper so far. Maybe…?

“People’s heartbeats spike when they’re lying.”

The words come out so softly that they’re barely a whisper; Mac catches them anyway.

“So, if I understand correctly, you believe that because you don’t trust me yet, I’ll be angry?” Mac laughs again, and the sound is sadder. “Oh, Matt. How can I be angry at you for not trusting me, when, at the same time, I’ve been withholding information from you? Information that you _ought_ to know? Every child should know who is raising them.”

“...you’re saying I should be mad at you?”

“I’m not going to be happy if you yell at me,” Mac says dryly. “But if anybody has a right to complain in this room, it’s currently you.”

“My fault,” Marigold says. “He wanted to tell you sooner, but you seemed so wary of us. I...didn’t want to make things worse. It was my idea. A terrible one, in hindsight. Keeping secrets doesn’t usually work out in this family. We did intend to tell you, I just kept...saying ‘not yet.’”

“You can’t take all the blame on this one, dearest. Don’t get greedy. I agreed to it, after all.”

Matt swallows, and focusses past the distraction of the adults saying that it’s their fault. That’s...too weird to deal with right now. “Wait. If you’re not human, what are you?”

“...You might want to sit down.”

Matt sits down on the couch, setting the cane across his knees and fingering the strap of it, taking comfort in the rough texture against his fingers. “Fine. Sitting down. You gonna tell me now?”

“We’re Elves.” His heartbeat is steady. Truthful.

Matt blinks.

“Wait,  _what?"_

* * *

“Elves,” Matt repeats, his fingers still playing with his cane. He had stretched out to lie flat on the couch. If you had to learn that your foster parents were not human, you should at least be able to sprawl on the couch while you did. The primary concession he’d made had been to toe off his shoes, at Mac’s wounded, wordless protest. 

“Well, I’m an Elf,” Mac said. “Marigold is half-Elven.” Truth. Steady, but truthful.

“What’s the other half?” Matt asks, gripping the cane tighter. Yeah, okay, he’d figured on Marigold not being entirely human. He’d been thinking of, of enhanced people, like the ones that the nuns didn’t talk about, except as ‘special children.’

“River spirit,” Marigold says, as calmly and prosaically as reporting the colour of the sky. Her heartbeat is steady. Truth.

Matt shakes his head, because oh God... “How does that even _work_?”

Marigold chuckles. “The finer points are a talk for another day. But I was conceived the way most children are.”

_My foster father is an Elf. My foster mother is half-Elf, half...river. How? How does that even happen?_

“Also a talk for another day, when you don’t look like you’re developing a headache,” Marigold says when he asks, dropping into the arm-chair. “One story at a time, Matt.”

Matt groans, and shakes his head. “Fine. Next question. If I have a right to know who you are, then I wanna know. Marigold and Mac aren’t your real names, are they?”

“Define real,” Mac says evenly. “They’re certainly legal. But they are not the names that our parents gave us, when we were born. My birth names are Kanafinwë Makalaurë. Although I was also called Maglor for a very long time.”

Matt blinks.

“You can see why I stick to Mac these days.”

Matt frowns, one hand picking over the cane again.

“Ka - Kanafinwë,” he says, feeling a flash of triumph when he gets the final sound correct. “Makalaurë.” Much easier by comparison, that second one.

“Very good,” Mac says approvingly. “You may call me what you wish in private, be it Makalaurë, Mac, or Maglor, with one condition: not Kanafinwë. It was never my preferred name, and it is reserved for my grandfathers, grandmothers, and mother.” A pause. “Usually while they’re scolding me about not writing more often.”

Matt snorts, and hears Mac’s foot-steps retreating towards the kitchen. “I think we could all use some tea,” Mac says, as the mugs are taken out of the cabinets.

“You always think we could use more tea,” Matt mutters. Near as he can tell, baking, playing music, and cooking are several of Mac’s preferred responses to stress. Dad had preferred beating the shit out of things, and that was much more understandable.

“I have yet to see a situation that tea made worse.” The electric jug flicked on.

“Really?” Marigold’s voice, light and amused and sly, like she’s poking at something and just waiting for it to go boom.

“...I know what you’re thinking, and those were outliers.”

Matt cranes his neck in the direction of her laugh. It’s bright, but it’s strained. She’s stressed. Worried. Dammit, he didn’t mean to make her worried. “What’s your real name?”

“As Maglor said, real is such a misleading term. Marigold is treated as a legal name, and I have had worse! But the name I am most accustomed to is Neniel. Or Goldberry, I suppose, in English, but after certain events, I really do prefer Neniel for family. Although Marigold is charming in its own way.”

Matt nods. “Okay. Neniel.”

“Thank you.”

“...yours are way too hard, Makalaurë,” Matt says.

“Believe it or not, you are not the first to say so,” Mac says, as the jug boiled. “You seem to be handling that one alright. Regardless, I’ll answer to it, or to Mac, or Maglor. Although it is nice to be called that again.”

“Okay,” Matt sighs, resting his head on the couch. “I’ll call you Makalaurë. Sounds nicer. No more deep, dark secrets?”

A long silence, but they're talking to each other. Matt can feel it, in the way that their stances shifted towards each other, swaying millimetres back and forth as they hold a silent conversation. Matt considers letting them know that he can hear it, and then discards the idea. The only sound that fills the apartment is the sound of the boiling water being poured into the mugs, and then the clashing smell of several teas being poured out. The bittersweet green tea that Mari– Neniel drinks. The one that Mac – Makalaurë favours, orange and cinnamon. Matt’s still not sure which one he likes. For now, he’s sticking to the honey and chamomile one. 

“I think that’s the biggest news, for now. We’ve lived a long time. There’s not room to get through everything today. And some of it was deep and dark. But I will say that that’s the last time we’re hiding anything from you,” Makalaurë says, stirring honey into his own tea. She’s right, he does have a sweet tooth. “Are you sure you don’t want sugar?”

Matt shakes his head. “It’s really sweet already.”

“Well, if nothing else, heightened senses explain your aversion to sky-high sugar content,” Makalaurë says mournfully. “A pity. I was looking forward to having an excuse to bake.”

“You’ll just have to make do without a pretext,” Neniel says, and Matt shakes his head. "I think the bigger problem is that he can taste the corn syrup and preservatives in everything. If you bake, I think it should be alright."  

“Okay,” Matt says, before the adults start talking about nutrition again. If they get on that topic, they won't get off it until dinner. “Okay. You’re Elves.”

“More or less,” Neniel agrees. “Are you alright with that?”

Matt thinks about green tea, lemon ice cream, and kisses to the temple, and shrugs. “I mean, it could be worse,” he says. “But I’d like it noted that my theory was cooler.”

Makalaurë sets the mug down in front of Matt, and then presses Neniel’s mug into her hand. There’s the sound of another kiss pressed to flesh, and Matt swallows.

Had his Mom done that, when she was with Dad? Had his parents made each other tea, and kissed each other for no other reason that the other person was there? Was his Mom’s heartbeat happy and light around Dad?

Maybe. But if she’d been as happy as Neniel is with Makalaurë, why would she have left?

“What was your theory?” Makalaurë asks.

“You were runaway mutants.”

A pause, and then Neniel says: “You know, that really is an excellent cover, if we need it.”

Matt almost smiles in her direction, gulps down the tea to hide it, and then is in silent agony.

It doesn’t matter old he gets, tongue burns are still the worst.

* * *

Matt wakes up the next night with the sour taste of adrenaline on his tongue, hearing a gasp in the apartment, and someone’s heart pounding fit to explode, _babum-babum-babum-babum_. Then Neniel’s voice cuts across the sound.  

“Love. Maglor, love. It’s alright. We’re all alright. I’m here.”

Eventually, Makalaurë’s heartbeat slows. It’s still faster than normal, still anxious and panicked, but it doesn’t feel like Dad’s heartbeat in the ring, now.

There’s a sigh, a kiss. A soft pop as lips pull apart, and the sound of a breath being let out slowly, each second stretching out like a length of string being tugged out to its full span.

“Do you want to go and check on him?” Neniel asks.

Matt rolls over, and takes deep, even breaths. He’s had enough practise with this that it shouldn’t be hard, but he keeps listening. Makalaurë had a nightmare. What about?

“Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea.”

A rustle of fabric – a shirt being put on, maybe? – and then the soft slap of Makalaurë’s feet on the laminate as he crosses the floor of the master bedroom, and then swings the door of Matt’s room open. Matt keeps breathing.

There’s a soft sigh from Makalaurë, and he crosses the bedroom to stand at Matt’s bedside. There’s the smell of salt and tears hanging in the air. Matt tenses. He can’t keep his body relaxed.

What’s he doing?

“You can stop faking it, you know,” Makalaurë says, his heartbeat slows to almost its normal rate. His voice is tired, thick with tears, but there’s a little amusement in it, like Dad’s sometimes, when Matt pretended to take him literally if he said ‘give us a minute.’

Matt rolls over. Stupid smart foster parents.

“Are you okay?” Matt asks.

Makalaurë shakes his head. “No. Not yet. But I will be. It was a memory. Nothing more.”

“Nightmare?”

Makalaurë nods, his hair rustling around his shoulders. Matt thinks about the orphanage, and waking up from nightmares when nobody is there, and swings his legs over the side.

“Come on,” he tells Makalaurë, getting up. “I can make you tea.”

Makalaurë shakes his head, and takes his hand, tugging Matt back to the bed. “You should go back to sleep, little one.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Yes.”

Matt tilts his head, listening to the side, and Makalaurë’s heart beat is steady. Truthful.

“Promise?” Matt asks, all the same, as he sits back down on the bed.

Makalaurë nods, his hair swishing forward, as he sits on the floor beside Matt’s bed. The scent of lily and ozone hovers in the doorway, before Marigold – no, Neniel, she said to call her Neniel – walks in, too. There’s a rustle of hair on hair, and fabric and skin, as she sits down beside Makalaurë, leaning her head on his shoulder. Makalaurë presses another kiss to her head, his beard bristling against her hair.

Still weird. And Stick would say it was weak, would sneer at them.

“What happened?” Matt asks, unable to keep the yawn out of his voice. “In the dream.”

Makalaurë shakes his head. “I’d prefer not to talk about it right now. It...it was bad.”

Matt blinks. “The war?”

Makalaurë sighs. “I’m not talking about it.”

_That’s a yes, then?_

Matt swallows, and stands again, ignoring Makalaurë’s exasperated “Matt, I _distinctly_ recall saying–” He finds Makalaurë’s hands – callused, still fever-hot, even though Makalaurë’s not sick, and why is one Elf as hot as a campfire when the other one is always cool to the touch? – and squeezes them. It’s a weakness, letting people in, he can hear Stick’s voice shouting at him. Makes you weak, easily manipulated.

Makalaurë came in, though. Makalaurë and Neniel brought him home with them, trusted him.And now Makalaurë’s had a nightmare which is, in some way, Matt’s fault. He’s nearly certain of it, even if he’s hazy on the exact details of _how_. That makes it Matt's job to fix it. 

Matt climbs into Makalaurë’s lap, and buries his face in the soft, threadbare cotton.

Makalaurë’s heart skips a beat, before he wraps an arm around Matt’s waist. Matt can smell Neniel’s waterfall of hair tickling one side of his face, coarse where Makalaurë’s is silk-smooth to the touch.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Matt says, breathing in Makalaurë’s scent. The spicy cologne is faded, and marred with the scent of adrenaline and tears. Matt nudges Makalaurë’s shoulder with his head. “But.”

_But I’m here. I’m here. Please don’t cry, Mac. Please don’t cry._

“You do realise that it’s not your job to be the grown-up,” Neniel says dryly, as though he’d spoken the thoughts aloud, notes of exasperation shooting through her words. But she kisses the top of his head, and begins to sing a lullaby, until Matt’s head falls against Makalaurë’s chest.

There’s something to be said for having ridiculously tall foster parents, Matt thinks muzzily.

* * *

Matt wakes up with sunlight on his back, silk sheets beneath his cheek, cotton so worn and threadbare it’s almost soft against his forehead, and hands stroking through his hair. At his back, there's something tickling his neck that smells like lily and ozone. Neniel on his other side. They must have shifted him to the bed in the night. 

“Good morning,” Makalaurë’s voice rumbles almost right in his ear, and Matt smiles.

“Morning,” he says. He smiles when he hears Neniel murmuring in the ripply, pretty language she speaks in sometimes in reply.

It takes him a few minutes to figure out what the soft feeling in his chest is. Safety. He feels _safe_. He hasn't felt safe since his Dad died.

Matt’s throat tightens at the thought, and he burrows a little harder into Makalaurë’s chest, reassured by the thudding of the heartbeat in his ears and in his fingers. This close, he can feel his own heartbeat slowing to match the pace of Makalaurë’s.

“Shh, Matt,” the velvety voice rumbles again. “Shhh. We have you. You’re alright, Matt. You’re alright.”

Matt takes a deep breath, and leans back against Neniel. Makalaurë's arm retracts immediately, like he wants Matt to be sure of his escape route.

“What’s for breakfast?” Matt asks.

“A good question,” Neniel says. Matt closes his eyes. It’s not honeyed, like Makalaurë’s, but Neniel’s voice is strong and clear and beautiful too, he thinks.

Makalaurë huffs a laugh. “Slave-drivers, the both of you!” But Matt hears movement, and a kiss being planted on flesh, and then, after a moment’s hesitation on Makalaurë's part, a kiss lands on Matt's forehead as well. “Come and help me when you’re dressed, please, Matt,” Makalaurë says, as he swings his feet onto the floor. Matt tilts his head to the side in confusion. “I did promise to teach you.”

Matt smiles, and sits up.

* * *

Matt comes out of his bedroom, later that afternoon, hearing the sound of fabric ripping. He cocks his head, listening, clicking his tongue against his teeth. There’s thousands of tiny things rattling into a box, and Makalaurë is singing an unfamiliar song. 

“What’re you doing?” Matt asks, around the taste of the sea breeze on his tongue.

“Replacing the bean bag cover,” Makalaurë says. There’s the click of scissors again, and he gives a satisfied hum. “I thought there’d be enough fabric for this,” he says, sounding distinctly pleased with himself.

Matt takes another few steps closer, and touches velvet. He swallows. That...has to be expensive, doesn’t it? “Makalaurë, you don’t have to–”

A huffed laugh. “I’m beginning to think Neniel has the right idea.”

Matt blinks. “What did she say? And where is she?”

“Gone to the gym,” Makalaurë says. “She’s thinking of keeping a jar for every time you try and brush off acts of care as unnecessary.”

Matt blinks again. “A...jar?”

“Some parents have swear jars. The principle is that you drop a quarter into it, every time you swear. Quite a charming premise.” Makalaurë stands, taking the fabric over to the kitchen bench, where Matt can hear a machine humming. “I’m afraid this next bit is going to sound quite horrible on your ears. Do you want to go up to the roof?”

Matt shakes his head. “Where’s the gym?”

“On the opposite corner of the apartment block. I’ll walk you, hold on,” Makalaurë says, switching the machine off.

“You don’t ha–”

“Matt.”

Matt shuts up, and Makalaurë walks into the kitchen, rummaging around in the drawers, before he sets something into Matt’s hand. “It’s not a jar, but it’ll do. Pay up.”

Matt blinks. “I don’t have one.”

“...that’s right, we haven’t set an allowance for you yet. We’ll have to fix that. Alright, I’ll cover this one.”

But he shouldn’t have to–

A second coin drops into the mug with a rattle.

“I didn’t say it!” Matt protests.

“No, but you were thinking it very loudly,” Makalaurë agrees. “Come on. Let’s go find Neniel.”

* * *

“You _box_?” Matt asks incredulously, as they walk into the gym. Neniel is at a bag, unleashing a flurry of punches, the bag swinging with the motion, the movements of the hooks and jabs flowing into each other, as though it’s some strange fusion of punching and dancing. 

“I did mention a war, didn’t I?” Neniel says, trapping the bag between her hands and walking over to them. She ruffles Matt’s hair in greeting, and leans up to kiss Makalaurë’s cheek. “Throwing a punch was a fairly important skill to pick up. Why so surprised?”

“Because you’re _you_ ,” Matt says, before realising that the words make no sense at all. “You grade papers and sing at 2:00am.”

“She is, indeed, very eccentric,” Makalaurë agrees, in that solemn way that Matt knows means he’s actually cracking up with laughter on the inside. “Even to the point of boxing.”

“You can’t talk,” Neniel protests, mock-indignant. “You still fence!”

“True.”

Matt focusses on the important part. “Can I spar with you?”

There’s a pause. They must be having one of their silent conversations again.

 _Did Mom do that, when she lived with Dad?_

“Why do you want to?”

There’s no judgement in Neniel’s tone. A slight hesitation, wrapped around the curiosity there. But there’s no judgement.

Matt shrugs. “Dad was a boxer.” And he needs to keep training, doesn’t he? Just in case…

He frowns. He hadn’t thought about it. Even if Stick _did_ come back…isn’t it different, now that Matt’s been adopted? Stick said that warriors didn't have parents, didn't let people in, and Stick proved that was true, because he left, the second Matt had let him in. 

 _Would Makalaurë do that? Would Neniel?_  

“Fair enough,” Makalaurë says. “I don’t see the harm. Neniel?”

“Alright,” Neniel agrees, after a pause. “Let me see what you can do.”

She leads him and Makalaurë to an empty room in the gym, with soft mats scattered everywhere, her bare feet silent on the mats. After a minute, Matt takes off his shoes and wriggles his toes in his socks.

“No contact,” Neniel tells him. “I’m going to pull my punches.”

“You don’t ha–”

Makalaurë coughs, and Matt groans. “That doesn’t count!”

“I think it does,” Makalaurë says.

“Matt.” Neniel’s voice is soft, and commanding, demanding more obedience than Stick ever could, on his best day, even though it’s so soft. Maybe _because_ it’s so soft. “I’m not landing punches on a child I’ve adopted. If you don’t like that, tough.”

But how’s he going to get better if she refuses to hit him?

“There’s more than one way to teach a child,” Neniel says, as though he’d voiced the objection aloud. “But if you want to spar with me, you accept my terms. No landed punches.”

Matt thinks about Neniel letting out a gasp of pain that the rookie boxers would let out, before they learned to swallow it, or expel the air with a shout and turn it into aggression, and flinches.

“No landed punches,” he agrees, softly.

That quickly, the moment shifts, and Neniel brightens. “Alright, then. Come at me.”

She dodges Matt’s attacks with the same fluency that Stick did, and Makalaurë calls out suggestions to both of them. “Nenya, keep your hands up. Matt, that flip’ll slow you in a fight.”

Matt lands on his feet, and holds up his hands in Neniel’s direction, testing, probing. Is she going to continue the kick to its end? But she stills instantly, not taking the chance that Stick would to sweep his feet out from under him. _Why?_

“But it carries more force,” Matt argues.

“It looks impressive,” Makalaurë says, “and at your size, it’d help you gain height for a taller opponent, I suppose. But against someone strong enough, they could simply shove you back, and you’d go flying.”

Matt chews on his lip. “So what do you say I should do?”

There’s a swish of hair; Makalaurë must be tying it up. “Here. Let me show you.”

* * *

“Makalaurë?” Matt asks him that night, when he brings the new bean bag into Matt’s room. Matt runs a hand over the velvet fabric, and swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“Yes?”

There’s a smile in Makalaurë’s voice, bright and warm.

“You–” Matt begins, and then he thinks better of it. “Thank you,” he says, instead.

Makalaurë chuckles, as he shifts his grip on the bean bag, and sits down beside Matt. One warm arm wraps around Matt’s shoulder, and warm lips land on the top of Matt’s head. “You’re very welcome, Matt.”

_Soft things, Matty._

Maybe he likes soft things anyway, he thinks, leaning into Makalaurë’s threadbare T-shirt, and they sit there for a while, Makalaurë’s arm around them, as Neniel talks to her sister in the bedroom, in a ripply, pretty language that Matt still can’t understand. That’s the elf language, then?

“Can I learn your language?” Matt asks.

“If you like,” Makalaurë says, a note of surprise in his voice. “If you’d like.”

Matt smiles. “I’d like.”

“Alright, little one.” Makalaurë hesitates, and then adds, “ _Pitya._ That’s what ‘little one’ would be, translated into my tongue. Would you mind it if I called you that?”

 _Pi-tya._ It sounds cheerful and happy, playful, like the way his Dad used to say _Matty,_ when he was teasing him about something. Matt thinks about it, and shakes his head.

“You can call me that, if you want,” he says.

“You’re sure?”

Matt nods.

“Positive.”

And after a moment, he realises it’s true.


	4. I promise I’ll be better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which another bomb-shell goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Can we work it out, can we be a family?_   
>  _I promise I’ll be better, Mommy, I’ll do anything,_   
>  _Can we work it out, can we be a family?_   
>  _I promise I’ll be better, Daddy, please don’t leave._
> 
> – _Family Portrait_ , P!nk

_November 14, 2000_

The fight wakes Matt from his sleep.

He can’t understand any of it. It’s in another language, not in either of the ones that Makalaurë and Neniel have been teaching him, not the flowing syllables of Quenya that are so easy to stumble over, or the shorter, staccato, tonal sounds of Kindi. It’s something else again.

That doesn’t matter. Matt’s never needed to understand the words to know that someone’s fighting.

They’re on opposite sides of the room, Makalaurë’s heart rates is thundering, Neniel’s muscles are tensed like she’s facing the punching bag instead of her husband, and the scent of their anger hangs thick in the air.

Matt feels like he’s swallowed a stone, sitting heavily in his stomach, making it hard to breathe, to think. They’re fighting, they’re fighting, and that’s _never_ happened before, they don’t _fight_.

Neniel snaps something out, the sound sharp and jagged, and the sound that Makalaurë makes in reply is low and harsh and angry, before his foot-steps start padding out of their bedroom, and into the living room. His foot-steps are soft, as his heart slows, and he lies down on the couch.

For some reason, that makes Neniel _angrier,_ and her fists clench. They stay that way, and the only sound in the apartment is the angry, thundering rhythms of her heart, and the decelerating rhythm of Makalaurë’s.

Neither of them are singing. Neither of them are even humming. Matt’s never heard either of them feel so angry.

Matt buries his head in his pillow, as he hears Makalaurë’s breaths even out. His eyes burn, and the guilt which has somehow faded back is now swallowing him whole, dark and yawning, because _they’re fighting_ and that– it has to be about him. They must have been so happy, so _happy_ together, before he came.

_They regret it._

He contemplates getting up, and sneaking out of the apartment, running out into the city, getting lost in the whirl of noise and traffic. But, although their senses aren’t enhanced to the same degree as him, they will _definitely_ hear him if he tries. They still seem to know every time he has a nightmare, and he wakes up to one of them by his side every time. Sometimes, both of them, but that’s rarer.

Makalaurë’s breaths even out, and the smell of salt is sharp in the air.

Neniel is crying. The only clues are the strengthening smell of salt, and the little gasping whimpers that she almost muffles, but Matt can hear them if he listens anyway.

Neniel is crying, and Matt feels his own tears slip free, tears at his helplessness, because they’re fighting, and what the hell is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to fix this?

 _Can_ he fix this?

His eyes slip closed again.

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of eggs frying, Makalaurë moving in the kitchen, and a cool hand stroking over his brow. 

“Matt. Matthew.”

Matt blinks awake. Neniel’s teeth draw over her lips in a smile, but the rhythm of her heartbeat is pattering and sad, and she still smells faintly of anger, fear and salt.

It wasn’t a bad dream.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, Matt,” and even though her heartbeat doesn’t accelerate at all, the lie hangs in the air, thick and unpleasant between them. Her hand combs up through his hair again, and Matt leans into the touch again. “I’m fine. Time to get up, though. You can’t miss school.”

Matt nods, swings his feet up over the side. Her eyes are heavy on him, and he squirms.

“What is it?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” A quick kiss against his forehead. “I’m just thinking about something.”

_About the fight you and Makalaurë had?_

“I might be late coming home tonight. Well after you’ve gone to bed.”

Matt blinks at her, tilting his head to the side. “I thought you didn’t have classes today?”

“I don’t,” she says. “But I think I need to take a few hours and think about things.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure,” heartbeat steady, heartbeat truthful, but the words themselves hold her to barely anything. “Tonight. I need to visit somebody, and talk something over, and it’ll take a while for me to surface.”

Matt swallows, nods, and gets to his feet.

She’s not lying, but–

“ _Promise_ you’ll be back?”

Her heartbeat slows even further, and she sighs, before she kneels and kisses him on either cheek. “Yes, _nettá._ I promise.”

* * *

Over breakfast, he can barely swallow the food. The eggs are fried perfectly, the way they always are; there is just the right amount of salt. Makalaurë has been frying eggs for himself and Neniel for thousands of years, so that’s no surprise. 

There’s no shouting, like some families when he hears them, their voices joining the cacophony that is New York. There’s no snide remarks, either. It takes him a while to figure out how he knows that’s something’s still wrong, the thing that is making a ball of tension sit in his stomach.

They’re not talking to each other. Both of them are talking to _him_ , or either not saying anything. And both of them are normally so in tune, so harmonious, that it sets his teeth on edge. The silence aches at him, until at last he breaks it, talking about civics that Mr Lawrence had started teaching them last Thursday. Makalaurë listens, asks quiet questions in his voice, but he seems a bit sadder than normal. When Neniel finishes her glass of orange juice, she comes over to Matt, combs her fingers through his hair, and kisses the top of his head.

“Be good.”

“I always am,” Matt reassures her.

Neniel snorts, and she kisses the top of his head again.

When she goes past Makalaurë, she doesn’t touch him. At all. Normally, she’d kiss him, soft and quick, or squeeze his shoulders, or his hands. Neniel is touchy, that’s just how she is. But today, she doesn’t touch Makalaurë at all, before she leaves.

The sound of the apartment door shutting behind her is horribly final. 

_Would she stop touching me some day?_

The thought makes him freeze in his seat, at the thought of Neniel not ruffling or finger combing his hair, or kissing his forehead or the top of his head, or scooping him up into cool hugs and letting himself rest there, soothed by her electric smell.

_Soft things, Matty._

He does not move until Makalaurë’s warm hands lift him up off the stool and set him down, his voice saying something, probably something about getting ready for school, the only clue to his irritation in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

* * *

After school, Makalaurë is waiting for him. He is standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the gates of the school. His guitar case is on his back. 

“I thought we could do something different today, _pitya_ ,” Makalaurë says casually, and Matt feels like screaming, because he doesn’t _want_ anything to be different. He wants this to be like their normal Fridays, where they go home, and Makalaurë and Neniel teach him new dishes to cook, and new songs to sing.

Matt forces a smile. “Oh? Like what?”

“I thought you could come and meet some friends of mine,” Makalaurë says. “I used to play in a few bands, once upon a time. I took a break from it this year, but we still meet up occasionally. And they all brought their instruments, too.”

“Sounds fun.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Makalaurë speaks again. “Matt, did something happen at school today? You don’t seem happy.”

_How am I supposed to be happy? You’re fighting with her!_

“Nothing happened at school,” Matt says.

“But something is wrong?”

 _Argh._ Stupid, stupid smart foster parents.

“It’s nothing,” Matt insists, “ _really_ ,” and his voice catches a little on the last word.

Makalaurë’s heartbeat turns a little sad, but his hand comes down on Matt’s shoulder and squeezes comfortingly. “Alright, _pitya_. Alright. Come on. I’ll introduce you to them. They’re good friends, I’ve known them for years now. It’s never too early to start listening to jazz, anyway. I can’t tell you how excited I was when it caught on again–”

“Wait, _again?”_

That gets Makalaurë talking about Atlantis – the one the myths were based on, apparently – and the musical styles of their later eras. Matt slips his hand into his, and they walk down the street together.

The ache in his chest ebbs a bit, even though it doesn’t leave.

* * *

He tries to stay awake. He really, really does. But Makalaurë must catch wise to his plan, because after he chivvies Matt into bed, he sits down in the rocking chair. That had been a recent addition to his room, and was apparently a gift from Neniel’s sister. It smells of both of them: paper and electricity, the smell of lilies that comes from her soap, and Makalaurë’s smell of spicy cologne and cooking. The knitted blanket that hangs on the top of the chair is also a gift, apparently from Makalaurë’s brothers. 

Makalaurë hasn’t brought his violin or his guitar into the room. Instead, he has a different small instrument on his lap, one that he is carefully tuning as he hums, one that he tells Matt is a lap harp, when Matt asks. By the time the harp is in tune, Matt is already fighting to suppress a yawn, so he doesn’t manage a protest when Makalaurë begins humming a lullaby. And once Makalaurë starts humming, or singing, it’s all over.

It’s not that he’ll hum or sing over Matt if he tries to talk. It’s more that it feels like a crime to make him stop, like robbing the world of something beautiful and right and _needed_.

So, despite all of his intentions to stay awake, Matt closes his eyes to better see the song of a city of grey stone, shining against a blue river.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he opens his eyes, awakened by the click of the door opening.

The smell of lilies and electricity is joined by sweat and water and grass, as the door closes behind Neniel. In the living room, Makalaurë’s T-shirt rubs against the leather of the couch as he sits up, and then gets to his feet.

Makalaurë’s voice is quiet. “You’re back.”

“Yes, I am _._ ” She is silent for a long moment, before her heartbeat picks up a little. But…not angry?

Makalaurë shifts on his feet, his toes flexing against the floor, his balance shifting. Not a combat stance, exactly. Alert, like the way ex-soldiers move when they walk into a new coffee shop.

And then, in Kindi, Neniel says: “I’m sorry.” Matt catches that much.

Makalaurë doesn’t reply. Neniel keeps talking, the Kindi too fast for Matt to follow, but he catches ‘sorry.’ At one point, Makalaurë interrupts, saying something in a reassuring tone, and Neniel cuts in on _him_ again, and her tone is desert-dry, and Matt’s stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots.

Makalaurë sighs, and then speaks again, soft and lilting. There’s something almost hopeful in it, and Matt catches an apology in there as well.

“ _Ná?_ ” Neniel asks, and Matt resists the temptation to slap his face into his palm. They’d definitely hear that. The way they switch languages all the time is _so annoying_. 

“ _Ná_ ,” Makalaurë agrees. His foot-steps are heavy in the apartment as he crosses the room to her, and both of their heart-beats are accelerating now.

Matt pulls his pillow off the bed and clamps it over his ears. There are some things that he _does not_ need to hear, and the sound of Makalaurë and Neniel kissing is definitely one of them.

But at least they’re not fighting anymore. Thank God, thank God, they’re not fighting anymore.

The realisation is as soft and slow as petals unfurling.

 _They’re gonna be okay._

The relief hits him with the force of one of Stick’s best punches, and Matt slumps in his bed.

_We’re gonna be okay._

Makalaurë and Neniel break apart, in the living room, their pulses thundering in time. She asks Makalaurë something, and he laughs, the sound warm and beautiful, replying with a smile curling into his voice. His reply – Matt catches ‘always’ – makes Neniel laugh, too, and she says something else, in the tone that she always uses for teasing Makalaurë. Makalaurë replies again, playful and low, and they laugh once more, before they walk across the living room of the apartment over to Matt’s door.

Matt deliberately lengthens his breaths, as the door swings open, and they cross the floor to kneel at his bed.

Neniel sighs. “Matt, I know you’re awake.”

_How do they always know?_

Matt rolls over, and reaches out for where her hand is cool on the covers. Her heartbeat is happy and light again. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Maglor and I had an argument, and I needed to think things through. It happens.”

 _It does?_

She just sounds so casual about it, as though nothing concerning had happened at all.

“I was going to talk to you about this in the morning, but then I realised you were awake, and I thought I’d come check on you.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Makalaurë chimes in, and his voice is a little reproving.

“He was worried,” Neniel says. “I should have seen it.” She combs through his hair. “Matt, do you know how long Maglor and I have been married?” Matt shakes his head. “We’ve been married for over six thousand years.” Matt blinks, and Neniel keeps talking. “Sometimes, we’ll disagree. We’ll argue. But I can tell you that neither of us are going anywhere. Alright?” Her hand has kept combing through his hair this whole time. “You don’t have to worry about one of us leaving, or about this home falling apart around you. Neither of us are going _anywhere_. I promise you that.”

His eyes are burning, and Neniel kisses his forehead, before she leans her head on the bed, and starts humming a lullaby again.

“‘m too old for that,” Matt protests, sleepily. It’s a thought he’s been meaning to tell them for a while.”

A rich, warm voice in his mind. _Humour her_ , the thought suggests. _She’s feeling guilty._ The thought sounds like Makalaurë, like the way he hears Stick’s voice and memories of his words in his head sometimes. So Matt closes his eyes, and breathes in the smell of caramel and golden light.

“What was the fight about?”

That’s what he intends to ask, but he’s sleepy enough that the words come out slurred and inarticulate. They seem to understand anyway, because Makalaurë’s lips land on his cheek.

“We’ll tell you in the morning, _pitya_.”

“’s morning,” Matt says.

“ _Later_ in the morning.”

Stupid, smart foster parents.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of Neniel singing in the kitchen, the smell of something being set down on the kitchen counter, and Makalaurë strumming on his guitar. Matt rolls out of bed and goes to the door of his room, because he can hear Makalaurë’s heartbeat over by the couch, but that means–

“You can _cook_?” he asks her sleepily.

“Yes,” she says, absently, as she pours something into the frying pan.

“Then why don’t you cook most of the time?”

Neniel laughs. “For us, traditionally, the men cook. And I’ve gotten very used to Maglor indulging me. But occasionally, I’ll cook.”

“Don’t worry,” Makalaurë says. “I’ve talked her out of fried spiders.”

“Spoilsport,” Neniel says cheerfully, as she picks up a spatula. Matt’s nose twitches, as he sniffs, and his stomach rumbles. Pancakes. Neniel is making _pancakes._ “Matt, come on over, and I’ll explain what happened.”

“Maybe we should eat first?”

“No, I wanna know,” Matt says. “I wanna know.” He crosses the room to Neniel’s side, and she ruffles his hair, before telling him to get the jams out of the cupboard. Matt clicks his tongue against his teeth to make sure the counter is free, and then climbs up onto it to reach the cupboards.

“Maglor and I have a rather large extended family. His was always big, and mine has only grown over the years,” Neniel says. “And I was worried that you would be overwhelmed by it.”

“Why?”

Her heartbeat ratchets up a little. “The nuns said that you grew up with your grandmother and your father. I thought it’d be a bit of a stretch for you.” She sighs. “Maglor pointed out that it was _always_ going to be a stretch for you to adjust to our family – we’re not exactly normal – and that there was nothing to say that we couldn’t take it slow, when it came to introductions. And on reflection, I’ve decided that he’s right. So would you like us to tell you about our family?”

Matt swallows, and nods. He’s gotten hints before, like the rocking chair, the blanket, the giant couch in the living room of the apartment. But– they’d avoided talking about it because they didn’t want to stress _him_ out?

_They don’t regret it. Not at all._

“I’d love that,” he says, and his voice only wobbles a little bit.

“Alright,” Neniel says. “We’ll start with my side of the family, then. You know that my mother is a river spirit. She lives in Britain, with my father, still. His name is Nurwë. And her name…well, you can call her Daremmá, if you want. It’s much easier to pronounce then her real name.”

Matt blinks. “Why, what’s her real name?”

Makalaurë snorts, from the couch. “Brace yourself.”

There’s a pause, as Makalaurë and Neniel communicate silently, and then Neniel’s voice ripples over a series of syllables that sound like a thunderclap, and running water all at once. Matt tastes river-water on his lips, clean and fresh, and the scent of electricity in the air thickens.

Matt blinks. “ _That’s_ her name?”

“There’s a reason my father gave her a different name. Dînen. Learning Valarin is possible – Maglor’s father is quite proficient in it, actually – but it’s rather difficult for Incarnate throats.”

“ _You_ can do it.”

“I’m only half-Incarnate,” Neniel says, bluntly. “So, on my side, you have a grandfather and a grandmother. No great-grandfather or great-grandmother.”

“But where did _your_ Dad come from, if he didn’t have parents?”

“He was created,” she says, and Matt drops the maple syrup. Neniel catches it before it can hit the floor. “Careful, there. Like your story of Adam and Eve, and the first generation of Men, my father was created, and he awoke. He was not conceived by a pair.”

“And this is the _less_ complicated side of the family tree?”

“The much less complicated side,” Makalaurë says brightly.

“Stop bragging, love. Anyway, you can call my mother Dînen or Daremmá, whichever you prefer, and you can call my father Darata, or Nurwë. Then there’s my sisters. I have two of them. Tauren is my middle sister, and she is married to a lovely man named Helado.”

“Mostly due to your interference, Nenya.”

“Nonsense. They’d been in love with each other since they were old enough to toddle, I just made sure they were aware of it. Now, Tauren and Helado – who go by Tania and Harold in public, the same way we go by Mac and Marigold – have a son and a daughter. Then I have a baby sister, Regen, who goes by Rose.”

“So I have cousins?”

For some reason, that makes Makalaurë laugh so hard that he nearly falls off the couch, and Neniel sighs.

“Yes, Matt,” she says, sounding very tired, but there’s a thread of humour running underneath it. “You have cousins. On my side of the family, five cousins.”

“That’s not too bad,” Matt says.

“You haven’t heard Maglor’s side, yet.” 

* * *

Before noon, Matt is on the floor with Makalaurë and Neniel. The apartment is filled with the sound of them teasing each other, and the whirring of the Braille maker, as the adults scramble over a giant sheet of butcher’s paper, until at last, after some fierce disagreement over where exactly on the family tree one of Neniel’s cousins should go, they announce that they’re done.

Matt starts on the left corner, at Neniel’s suggestion, and her hand is cool over his as she guides him through it.

 _Nurwe, Unbegotten, brother of Salye_.

“Wait, if they didn’t have parents, how can he have a sibling?”

Neniel explains.

“That’s _so_ weird.”

“Oh, just you wait,” Makalaurë says.

She guides his hand down further.

_Raca, daughter of Salye, Orobene, Nurwe; Tuilo, son of Salye, Orobene, Nurwe._

“…Eww.”

“Not like that,” Neniel says, sounding alarmed at the thought, shaking her head. “My Aunt wanted children, but she did not wish to be married. So she conceived her children by Orobenë, but she raised them alongside me as though they were my younger siblings. That is why my cousins name both Orobenë and my father as their fathers.” 

Matt blinks. “…So your cousins have _three_ parents? And your Dad is their Dad too?”

“It hurt my head too, when she explained it,” Makalaurë says, ruefully.

“This despite you having been in a similar situation?”

“It’s not the same, sweet, and you know it.”

Neniel snorts, and Matt sighs, and her hand guides him to the next name.

 _Neniel, daughter of Dinen and Nurwe_ , and then to the left of it, _Maglor, son of Nerdanel and Feanor._

Neniel’s hand guides his further down.

_Elrond and Elros, sons of Elwing, Earendil, Maglor._

“She insisted,” Makalaurë says, with a sigh. “That’s what the long pause you heard was.”

“…you two were talking?”

“Elves speak mind-to-mind, often enough. Especially married couples.” Makalaurë sounds so casual about it, as though that’s not terrifying. “Elros is long dead, but Elrond and I still keep in touch. He’s in Tirion at the moment, where I was born.”

“Elrond and Elros were born to Elwing and Eärendil, but Maglor was heavily involved in raising them. The rest of it is a long and complicated story that I’ll tell you another day. One thing at a time.” 

Neniel guides his hand to the right of that.

_Ravanen Vanesse, daughter of Neniel and Maglor._

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s much older than you, of course, like Elrond. She’s currently working to fix a water pollution disaster.” Makalaurë’s hand is warm as he rubs at Matt’s back. “We call her, often. She’s excited to meet her new little brother–”

_She is?_

“–but she can’t leave until she’s sure that the projects won’t go ahead. So it might be a little while before you can meet her.”

They have a daughter. They have a _daughter?_ Makalaurë and Neniel have a daughter, and that daughter wants to meet him. Someday. She’s _excited_ to meet him. Why? What is she thinking? Why–

“Why does she have two names?”

It’s not the question he first thought of, but it is the only one he can say out loud. 

“It’s a custom of my culture,” Makalaurë says, “to give a child two names. One from the mother, one from the father. Neniel agreed to do it for our daughter.”

“Rávanen was my name,” she says, “and Vanessë was his. She was born in Valinor, so we gave her Quenya names.”

“ _Nen_ means water,” Matt says, frowning, “so you’re…’water daughter?’”

“Exactly.”

“Rávanen…something water.”

“Wild waters,” Makalaurë says. “Neniel held her, and said that she’d be fair and fierce.” A grin in his voice. “I said, “So not at all like her mother?’”

“Isn’t Vanessa an English name?”

“Vanessë, Matt,” Makalaurë corrects. “ _Vanessa_ is what happened when Jonathan Swift misheard her one night. They became good friends, while she was in Ireland. I think he liked how much trouble she caused.”

“What does Vanessë mean?”

Makalaurë huffs a laugh. “It means ‘beauty.’ My family has teased me for the lack of originality ever since it happened. But I held her, and it was the first thing that came to mind. It really was.”

“You looked stunned. Concussed, even,” Neniel agrees.

“I felt it. And then she opened her mouth. She had a very respectable pair of lungs.”

“She gets that from you.” Makalaurë snorts. “So that’s your sister, Matt.” Neniel's hand moves him a little further along to the left. “And there you are.”

 _Matthew Murdock,_ the Braille reads. _Son of Jack Murdock, Maggie Murdock, Neniel, Maglor._

 _Mom’s name was_ _Maggie?_

“You know my Mom’s name?”

Neniel nodded. “Sister Maggie has been in Hell’s Kitchen for a long time.”

“Huh.” Matt doesn’t know that many Maggies, but…she had been lying, when she’d said she was sure it wasn’t true, when he said his Mom didn’t want him. So she had to know his Mom. Maybe it was a more common name back then. He’ll ask her about it, some time.

Makalaurë’s heartbeat has picked up a little, like it does when he’s nervous or worried, and Matt runs his finger over the words again.

_Son of Jack Murdock, Maggie Murdock, Maglor, Neniel._

Matt turns his head into Makalaurë’s shoulder, his eyes burning, and Makalaurë’s hand combs through his hair, reassuring and steady and warm, so warm. On his other side, Neniel rolls over, and her hand rubs his back.

“It’s okay,” Makalaurë whispers. “We’ve got you.”

And that’s all it takes before the tears slip free, and Matt’s shoulders start to shake.

* * *

_November 21, 2000_

The suit-case is set down by the arm of the couch closest to the door. At the same time, Neniel kicks the master bedroom door shut, cushions hefted in her arms.

“You must be Matt. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” The man’s voice is smooth, but not as musical as Makalaurë’s, as he shrugs his coat off and folds it over his suitcase. He smells like coconuts. Shampoo, maybe? Makalaurë and Neniel both keep their hair long, and from the rustle that Matt hears, his hair is at least shoulder-length. And his voice is coming from at least four feet over Matt’s head.

It’s almost terrifying, how much Matt wants this to go well. He forces the panic down, smiles, and holds out his hand.

“Hi, Uncle Maedhros,” he says. _What comes next? What comes next…_ “How was the flight?”

A laugh from the Elf, as he squats to shake Matt’s hand. “Are you always this polite?”

Relief is like cool water rushing over him. “Almost never,” Matt says, and Maedhros laughs again.

“Well, I’m honoured.” Matt twitches his fingers, and Maedhros’ grip immediately drops his, as he stands to his feet again. “I have to say, Káno, the resemblance is astonishing. He’s just like you were at that age.”

“Excuse you,” Makalaurë says, setting his keys down on the coffee table, with laughter in his voice, but something else, too, something that Matt used to hear in Dad’s voice, when he was teasing Matt. Laughter, but also…

_Pride?_

_Makalaurë’s proud of me?_

Makalaurë continues: “I was _never_ …”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” Maedhros tells Matt. “He was a horrid child. Neniel! Good to see you!”

“Maedhros! I’m glad you could make it. I know you’re busy with the–”

“Don’t say it,” Maedhros says, with a groan. “I can’t keep the delusion up for long, but imagining that I’ve actually left the kingship behind is very pleasant.”

_Say what?_

“Until the next e-mail comes,” Neniel says, with a laugh.

“Well, yes.” 

Matt finds his tongue. “…you’re a King?”

All three adults fall silent, before Neniel sighs. “We didn't mention it when we did the family tree, did we?”

* * *

“King,” Matt repeats flatly, pointing at Maedhros. He’s sitting on the bean-bag, fiddling with his cane with his free hand. Makalaurë and Maedhros are both in the kitchen, and apparently Kings and princes do stir fry for dinner. Neniel is in her arm-chair, her legs hooked over the side, scribbling on a note-pad. “And prince.” The finger switches to Makalaurë. 

“Princess, too,” Maedhros says, cheerfully.

“ _What?”_

“I’m not a princess,” Neniel says, her tone reassuring. “Maedhros is just teasing you.”

“Your father is the chief,” Maedhros says, “your people followed you to Mithlond, and judging by the standards of certain movies, your way with animals alone would qualify you for the role.”

“He’s got a point,” Makalaurë says, his laughter curling through his voice again, and okay, somebody’s being teased right now, and it’s not Matt.

“Enough! _Both_ of you,” Neniel says, but there’s too much humour in her voice for it to be a proper snap. “King and prince, Matt. Can you live with that?”

Matt sighs, letting his head thump back against the bean bag. It rustles beneath his head, and the fabric is soft against his cheek. Makalaurë had made it from two of his old coats, and he has no idea how much work that took.

Green tea. Lemon ice cream. Neniel’s hand on his, guiding it over a Braille family tree, and a host of unfamiliar names, but his own had been among them. Nestled in there like Matt Murdock wasn’t out of place at all.

And…he doesn't feel out of place. Not in this apartment. Confused, sometimes, yeah. But…

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Yeah, I can live with that.”

“Glad to hear it,” Makalaurë says. “Now come help us make dinner.”

“Work, work, _work_ ,” Matt mumbles, sending his cane clattering to the floor and getting up.

“Don’t say it,’ Makalaurë says, glancing at Maedhros, “don’t you say it–”

There’s a dragging sound, lips stretching out over teeth as Maedhros smiles. “Just. Like. You.”

The ensuing food fight means that dinner is an hour late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nettá: Kindi, 'little one.
> 
> Pitya: Quenya, 'little one.'
> 
> Ná: Quenya, 'yes' or 'yeah.' 
> 
> Vanessa: First documented use in English is in a work of Jonathan Swift. I was looking at Quenya names, and the plot bunny would not go away. Why is the water family like this?
> 
> Rávanen Vanessë: Goes by Vanessa, these days. 
> 
> I don't know if Braille has options for the 'ë' or the 'î', so I've left most of the accents off the Elven family tree.
> 
> And yes, King Maedhros. Specifically, Maedhros, King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth. I think Fëanor is happily up to his eyes in Things To Make, and Fingolfin is ruling the Noldor in Aman, and Maedhros is now ruling most of the Noldor in Middle-Earth by email for the next few months.


	5. as dead I may well be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, horse-riding, communication. Or, the Thanksgiving episode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And if you come, when all the flow’rs are dying,_   
>  _If I am dead, as dead I may well be,_   
>  _I pray you’ll find the place where I am lying,_   
>  _And kneel and say an ‘ave’ there for me._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> – Danny Boy

Neniel settles into the rocking chair beside Matt’s bed, and watches him with a soft smile on her face. Her smile is the same smile she’d worn when Elrond and Celebrían had wed, when she watched over Elladan and Elrohir on hunting trips, when she held Rávanen for the first time. She glances up at him, and her smile widens, as she jerks her head to the living room. _I know you missed him. Go on._

Maglor smiles back at her, and presses a quick kiss to her temple, before walking back into the living room, closing the door to Matt’s room behind him with barely a whisper. From the couch, Maedhros glances up at him, and smiles, patting the spot next to him, as he sets his pencil down.

“He goes down quickly.”

“Mm. Normally, we get him in bed about an hour before this.” Maglor stretches his neck from side to side, before leaning over Maedhros’ shoulder to get a look at the sketch. It’s Matt. His eyebrows scrunched up together as though he is deep in thought, a slight smile curling at the corners of his mouth, his hands twisting over the handle of his cane. Written in the _tengwar_ around the curve of the back of his head is _Eruanna Makalaurion_. Maglor’s voice is suddenly thick as he finishes the thought. “I think that’s why it happened so quickly tonight…”

“I wonder.” Maedhros’ look at him is one that Maglor recognises from days in Valinor, a considering look where he tries to assess just how much trouble his younger brothers have created. “Do you sing to him every night?”

“More or less. Why?”

Maedhros twirls the pencil in his grip delicately. “He is not an elven child, and even though there might be traces of Arwen’s line in him, he is not as strong as Elros or Elrond.” His brother’s eyes are stern, as they look back at him. “You need to be careful, Makalaurë. You’re still the most powerful singer of our people, and your wife is still the eldest and strongest river-daughter. And Matt is fully Man. You know how sensitive their bodies and spirits are.”

The world is suddenly very far away.

Sea and stars. Maedhros is right. He’d been so concerned that Matt start sleeping at night and sleeping through it, and with keeping the nightmares away, that none of that had occurred to him. He’d pushed at Matt, he’d _overridden_ his will, why had he–

Maedhros leans over and flicks him in the temple, catching the edges and direction of his thoughts as they began to spiral. “ _No_.” He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t start on that path. You made a mistake. So? No father is perfect! Dwelling on it isn’t going to help you.”

Maglor takes a deep breath, and nods. “You’re right. It’s just…different. Raising a child who is fully Man, and not Elven at all. Even Elros and Elrond were half-elven.”

“Different from Rávanen, too.” Maedhros smiles, his right hand slipping down Maglor’s back, and rubbing at it gently. “Speaking of whom, has she met him yet?”

Maglor shakes his head. “She’s promised to come home for the new year. But we want to give him time to adjust to the fact that he suddenly has a very large family.”

“Where is his extended family? I know you said his father died…”

“Last September. And I don’t know. If they’re around, they’re keeping their distance.”

“His father died that recently? He’s recovering well.”

Maglor makes a demurring gesture with his hand. “In some ways. He still looks at Neniel and I like we’re going to vanish on him overnight, sometimes, though. Irony of ironies.” But that is still years away, and dwelling on it will do no good. So he pushes the thought away. “I’ll talk to Neniel about it.”

“Mm. When are you telling him about the First Age?”

“Ah. I’m not sure.” On the one hand, he does not want to hide anything from Matt. On the other hand, Matt has only just learned all the names of his family members. He does not know about Fëanor’s Oath, but nor does he know the fierce pride and joy that shines in Fëanor’s gaze when he speaks about his sons. He does not know of the Second Kinslaying, but nor he has met his uncles Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin. “Amil very much wants to meet him. I don’t think I can keep her away much longer. I hoped, after that…I don’t want the First Age to be his first thought, when he thinks about his family.”

“And Atar?” Maedhros’ voice is very cautious, all of a sudden, and Maglor glances at him.

Fëanor had been less vocally enthusiastic than Nerdanel, when Maglor reported that they would have another grandson.

“Atar has not said much at all,” Maglor says, slowly. Maedhros nods, as though everything is explained now, and Maglor feels a surge of impatience. “Maedhros. What are you thinking?”

“I think that he wonders whether he can bear to lose another person. But he has no wish to hurt you by implying that your son is not wanted in our family.” Maedhros smiles at him, soft and a little wistfully. “You attract complicated situations, Káno.”

“Matt needed a home.” Whether that is explanation, justification, or deflection, Maglor is not entirely sure.

“Yes,” Maedhros agrees. “So when he practically fell into Neniel’s lap and she asked if you could keep him, you were never going to say ‘no.’ Beleriand and Middle-Earth taught you both the value of happiness, however fleeting. But the loss of Haruni Míriel shaped him, the loss of Haru Finwë nearly destroyed him. And then he watched all of us go, one by one, except for you. I think he wonders whether he can survive seeing a grand-child die as well.” Maedhros shrugs. “Not that there’s much we can do about it, either way.”

No-one could take away the gift of Men. Not even Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor.

“He’ll have to live with it,” Maglor says, his eyes burning. They all would. As they had had to live through Elros, and Elros’ children, all the way down the line, until Aragorn, and Arwen with him had passed on beyond…

Maedhros sets the sketchbook on the coffee table, and opens his arms, and Maglor leans in, setting his chin on Maedhros’ shoulder. Maedhros’ arms are still strong and warm, and his hugs are tight and protective, as they were in Valinor, under golden light.

“It’s a while away,” Maedhros whispers. His hand moves in slow circles over Maglor’s back, and that sends the tears slipping free. “And when it happens, we’ll remember him. Until the Second Music itself.”

At the edges of his mind, he feels Neniel’s stream-song turn mournful, with her own grief, for this child that has wriggled under their skin so quickly. He reaches back for her, grateful more than ever for that sense of _leaning-on_ and _leaned_ - _on,_ their bond still strong after all these years, as comforting as his brother’s arms around him.

“He won’t be alone,” Maglor says, shakily. “When he steps beyond. Elros, Arwen, Estel…”

“You won’t be alone, either, Káno.”

Maglor takes a long, deep breath, and reaches out in thought to Matt’s flickery, light spirit. So young, and so strong, in the way of brightly burning candles.

Still there, in his bedroom. Still there.

“What do we need to do tomorrow?”

Maglor takes another breath. “It’s Thanksgiving on Thursday, so Neniel has a lot of work to wrap up at Columbia tomorrow. I’ve turned in the latest commission that I was asked to write. But Matt doesn’t have school. We have the day with him.”

“Right. He doesn’t know how to ride, does he?”

Maglor smiles. “No. I’ve been wanting to teach him, but I just–”

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Maedhros finishes, grinning at him, deliberately light and playful. “You never do.”

“Calumny!” Maglor says, trying to flick Maedhros in the forehead, but Maedhros catches his wrist, laughing. “Slander and calumny!”

“It’s not slander or calumny if it’s _true_ , Makalaurë,” Maedhros says, and that is when Maglor starts poking him with the pencil. A pillow fight would be far too noisy, and Matt needs to sleep.

* * *

Matt rolls out of bed the next day, when he hears Makalaurë and Maedhros speaking softly, and dresses quickly, listening as he yanks on socks and pants and a long-sleeved shirt. From the sounds of things, they won’t be spending much time inside today. 

“Why don’t you two have a car? Wouldn’t it make things simpler?”

“Between how guilty it makes Neniel feel, and the cost of parking spots in this city – let alone the traffic – it’s not worth it. Nearly everything we really need is in walking distance. It’s just for exceptions like this where it becomes a problem. But that shouldn’t be too bad. There’s the subway. Assuming Matt’s alright with it.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“He gets sensory overload, sometimes.”

“I’m better now,” Matt says, and Makalaurë spins around to face him, on light feet.

“Good morning!” Maedhros says. “You’re very stealthy. How was your sleep?”

“Fine,” Matt says. “Why does Neniel feel guilty about having a car?”

“An excellent question, and one probably best directed at her,” Maedhros says. “Judging by the look on Káno’s face. He looks faintly exasperated.”

His heartbeat feels the same, now that Maedhros mentions it. But that raises another question.

“Why do you call him that?” Káno hadn’t been on the list of names that Makalaurë had said Matt could use. He crosses into the kitchen, and reaches up onto the counters for the plate he can smell there, loaded with eggs and bacon. The smell of coffee is hanging thickly in the kitchen.

Maedhros drinks it too, then.

“It’s the short-form of Kanafinwë, his father name. I’ve called him that since he was born. A nickname, if you will.”

“Do you have a nickname?” Matt asks, as he hops onto the stool. Makalaurë presses a kiss to his temple, and a glass of orange juice into his hand, and Matt smiles, leaning into Makalaurë’s arm around him.

“Several. But usually, these days, I prefer Maedhros, just as your mother prefers to go by Neniel.”

Matt blinks. It’s the first time that someone has called Neniel that, casually, the way blood relatives do: _go and ask your mother_ , or _your mother always says._

Matt nods. “So where are we going?”

“Well, it’s a nice day out, and there’s a tradition in our family,” Maedhros begins. “Makalaurë and I thought you could try something new, and we could start teaching you how to ride.”

Matt blinks. “Ride?”

“Horses,” Makalaurë clarifies. “Maedhros is talking about horse-riding.”

Oh.

Matt’s primary experience with horses is on the feel-good TV shows that Mary used to like watching, and the fact that apparently, once, his Dad took his Mom on a date around Central Park in one of the carriage rides, after he had a good win. He’d never so much as seen a horse, before the accident.

But he could try and learn to ride one. Today.

“…How big are they?”

“Well, that depends on the horse. They’ll probably put you on a pony, though, _pitya_. A small horse. And Maedhros and I will be right there.”

“We don’t have to do it, though,” Maedhros says. “If there’s something else you’d prefer to do–”

His tone is solicitous, but Matt shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s okay. Let’s do it.”

There’s a pause, while the adults have a silent conversation.

“Alright. Are you okay to take the subway?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Matt says, a little nettled at them using mind-speech instead of just talking to him.

Maedhros stills. “You’ve never taken it before?”

“I’ve never left Hell’s Kitchen before,” Matt says, suddenly uncomfortable. His whole life has always been here, for as long as he can remember.

“It’s a new day,” Makalaurë says, apparently choosing to gloss over the stunned shock that Matt can feel in Maedhros’ stance. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

* * *

He slides his feet out of the stirrups, and looks in Makalaurë’s direction. He is standing beside the horse’s head, and has been leading it, in order to satisfy the requirements laid down by the riding school. 

“How do I–”

“Right foot backwards,” Makalaurë says. “The same motion you used to get on Anganto in the first place, but backwards.”

Matt tries, and the ground comes flying up to meet him, and he grunts at the ache in his legs as his boots hit the sand. “Argh.”

Makalaurë’s laugh is rueful, as his hand comes down on Matt’s shoulder, light and warm and comforting. “It gets better, _pitya_.”

“Really?”

“Yes. If you practise.”

Matt’s not entirely sure what to think about that. On the one hand, it hadn’t been bad, walking around the arena, and trotting while Maedhros sat perched on the fence posts with the instructor, and they talked through reining in the horse, tapping with his heels instead of kicking, the importance of soft hands. It had definitely been nicer than Stick’s teaching methods.

On the other hand, the subway ride to get here had been awful. The smells cramped into the car, the way the sound bounced and echoed and reverberated, ever-intensifying, the way everything was too loud…Matt had grabbed on to Makalaurë’s wrist and started meditating, all the way up until they left the station of their final stop, and got onto the bus.

“Oh.”

The third part, of course, and the thing that Matt’s not entirely sure about, is the way that Makalaurë had loved every single second of leading him around the arena. He had spoken to Callum very seriously and intently while helping the groom tack him up, renamed him Anganto – which couldn’t mean what Matt _thought_ it meant – had whistled as he led Matt around the arena, and his heartbeat had been light and joyful the whole morning. Except for the part where the instructors had implied that he couldn’t be trusted to supervise. Then Maedhros had stepped sharply on Makalaurë’s foot, and taken over the conversation.

“Perhaps not here, though,” Makalaurë says. “Maedhros has an old friend who doesn’t live far away. Perhaps we could make a trip to visit him. He has stables, too. We’ll have more freedom to work with there.”

Makalaurë’s voice is intent and thoughtful, and his heartbeat is still happy, his entire body relaxed. So Matt smiles brightly at him, and nods. “Sounds good. We don’t have to go home right away, do we?”

“Oh, no. First you have to thank Anganto, and put him away.”

“That doesn’t mean what I think it means, does it?” Matt asks, patting the horse’s velvety nose. The horse nudges him, hard, its head butting against Matt’s chest, and Matt frowns at the horse,as Makalaurë begins to scold Anganto. “Okay, maybe it does.”

* * *

That night, when he goes to bed, Neniel is in the arm-chair, a stack of papers in her lap. Marking to be done over the Thanksgiving week-end. Maedhros is on his laptop, apparently dealing with some problem with a mayor in the U.K. and somebody getting arrested, and Makalaurë is watching over his shoulder, hovering. 

“So how did you find the stable?”

The question is asked as he settles his head down on the pillow. He’d expected a lullaby, but they don’t always do things the same every night.

“Oh, it was easy,” Matt replies, smiling at her. “We just followed a map–”

Neniel laughs quietly, her pen moving over the paper with a soft scratching sound. “Very funny, _nettá_. What did you think of riding?”

“Great!” he says, brightly. “Awesome! I loved it!”

“That bad, hm?”

Matt sighs. He should have known better.

The rhythm of Neniel’s heartbeat turns light and amused. “I don’t blame you, if that helps any. Thousands of years with him, and I’m still not a horse person. Not the way his family is.”

“Why not?” Matt asks. “You’re both Elves.” Both of them have more songs in praise of the sky and stars and earth and animals than he’d ever thought were possible.

She laughs again. “And therefore we see things exactly the same way? No.” Scratch, scratch. “You know that I’m a Kindi, and he is a Noldo, yes?”

Matt nods. “The Noldor speak Quenya and Sindarin, and the Kindi speak Kindi and Sindarin. But Makalaurë learned Kindi for you, and you learned Quenya for him.”

“Yes. But although the Noldor live within the lands of Men now – what we used to call Middle-Earth – they did not always live there. Maglor grew up in a city in Elvenhome called Tirion, a city of the Noldor, where horseback was how you got from one city to another. I grew up in a thick forest, where we didn’t have horses at all. It wasn’t the right environment, for grazing animals. And you’ve grown up in another environment altogether. Of course you’re going to react differently. That’s alright.”

Matt sighs. “I…I don’t know. He really wanted me to enjoy it.”

“I’m sure he did,” Neniel says. “But this is Maglor. He loves spending time with you, in the apartment, or at the gym, or anywhere else. But if you dislike it, he’d want you to tell him about it. He wouldn’t want you to make yourself miserable to try and please him.”

“I don’t know that I _dislike_ it,” Matt protests. “I just…don’t know what I think about.” Being on the horse had been fun, even if his legs felt a sore now. Getting there and getting back had been a nightmare. The sounds of the subway, the screech of the train’s breaks, the pressure cooker of a thousand different smells all jammed into the compartment…

“Fair enough. Well, there’s no urgency, and no deadline for you to make up your mind. And besides, the snow might come soon, so I imagine that will get a little more difficult, anyway. Just tell him when you do. Alright?”

Matt nods, as his eyes begin to drift close. “Are you gonna sing tonight?”

She is silent for a moment. “Last week, you told us that you were too old for lullabies, and we didn’t listen. Did you mean it? Do you not want us to sing you to sleep?”

Matt blinks. “I like it when you sing. Just – not if I have a question. I want the answer, first. I don’t want–”

For them to keep secrets from him? For them to treat him like he’s a kid? For them to act as though his opinions don’t matter?

The thoughts circle around, tangling him up, and he swallows.

Neniel’s hair rustles as she nods, as though she’s heard the ends of the sentence. And maybe she has. “That’s fair,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, _nettá_.”

Matt smiles. “’sok.”

She leans forward, and one cool hand strokes over his forehead, as she begins to hum, the song from the night he’d found her in the park. Blue skies, warm weather, fresh wet grass underfoot, and flowers opening. The springtime song.

Matt sighs, and lets the song carry him to sleep.

* * *

The table is sticky, under his cheek, and he can’t quite wake up, hovering on the edge between sleep and wakefulness.

Then the gunshot rings out, and he is moving, racing out of the apartment, racing to the alley, and then smelling blood in the air–

Dad’s face under his hands, broken-jaw, broken-nosed, and two more bodies in the alley, two more faces underneath Matt’s probing, desperate fingers. Underneath the smells of blood and pain and adrenaline, Matt can make out lilies and electricity and a sharp, spicy scent.

He opens his eyes, and gasps in air, shaky breaths that shudder in his throat. He can taste the salt from his own tears, smell his adrenaline and anxiety, smell the lingering scent of lilies and electricity.

No blood. No blood.

Maedhros, sleeping on the couch, underneath a blanket. He smells like the curry that he and Makalaurë had made, and he is stirring. Matt forces his breathing to even out, to take longer, slower breaths. In the master bedroom, Neniel and Maglor are asleep as well. Both of them sound relaxed, in deep sleep from the rhythm of their breathing.

No blood. There’s no blood anywhere. Everybody is still breathing. Their pulses are slow and contented, but still strong, repetitive. The apartment smells the way it always does. But Maedhros is awake now, Matt can feel it in the change of his breathing, and then Makalaurë comes awake too. He gets up and rolls out of the bed, and Neniel is awake, now, too, murmuring softly to Makalaurë.

Irritation wars with relief, and Matt buries his head in his pillow, as Makalaurë and Neniel come into the room.

Makalaurë’s sigh is one that Matt knows well by now. Amused exasperation. “I know you’re awake.”

Matt rolls back over, and blinks up at them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t,” Makalaurë says, sitting down on the bed beside him, combing through his hair with warm, strong fingers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Matt swallows, leaning into the touch. “I. The night my Dad– the night Dad died.”

Makalaurë’s arms are pulling Matt up to a sitting position, his warm smell surrounding Matt. No blood. Just the fading smell of cologne, and the warm smell underneath that, the smell that is Makalaurë. “Oh, _Matt_.”

Matt buries his face in Makalaurë’s warm neck, and feels the bed sink a little as Neniel sits, wrapping her arms around them both, her electricity smell wrapping around him as well.

“We have you,” Makalaurë whispers. “We have you. We’re not going anywhere. It’s alright, _pitya._ ”

“You can’t promise that.” It comes out flat and angry, muffled against Makalaurë’s neck, even though the tears are stinging at his eyes. “Dad used to say that too. After the accident. That it was okay, that he wasn’t going anywhere. And it _wasn’t_ okay, and he _fucking died_ , and you two might–”

Makalaurë’s arms stay around him, tight and protective, and his lips land on the top of Matt’s head. “I know. I know.” His tone isn’t angry, even though Matt’s swearing at him, just sad and gentle. “I know, Matt.” He kisses Matt’s temple, again. “But if it helps, we’re very difficult to kill. We’re like cockroaches.”

Matt can’t help the laugh that escapes him, sudden and startled, and Makalaurë chuckles, too. Behind them, Matt senses the amusement in Neniel’s heartbeat, even if she isn’t giggling, as she sits down on Matt’s other side, and wraps her arms around them both, sandwiching Matt between her body and Makalaurë’s.

 _Mine,_ Matt thinks. It’s not the most comfortable of hugs, but he leans into it anyway, and their arms tighten around him. _They’re mine._

“Yes, we are,” Neniel says. “We always will be.” She kisses the back of his head. “Do you think you can try getting back to sleep?” Matt shakes his head. “We’d better get up, then.”

* * *

Thanksgiving starts at 3:00am, with Maedhros and Makalaurë making tea and coffee in the kitchen, and sitting down on the couch. The adults’ bodies all shift, as though they’re speaking silently to each other, before Makalaurë’s heartbeat changes, firm and resolved. 

“Matt, about what you said about your father–”

Matt looks away, swallowing. “It’s not that big a deal,” he interrupts.

A gentle swishing sound, as all three adults shake their heads.

“Yes, it is,” Maglor says. “Let me finish. If it’s any consolation, Maedhros and I both know how you feel. We felt something very similar, after our father died.”

…Oh.

“…’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, _pitya_ ,” Maedhros says. “That’s what Káno is saying. It’s alright for you to feel that way. It’s no betrayal of your father, or of the memories you treasure. It’s just admitting that he wasn’t perfect, and he didn’t get it all the way right. No parent does, in the end.”

Matt blinks. “Yours didn’t get it right, either?”

There’s another silence, before Makalaurë says: “Yes, you could say that. It’s a bit of a long story, I’m afraid. Lots of tragedy and war, fear and distrust, and many, many mistakes. But…the ending is much happier than I expected it to be, at the time.” A warm hand combs through Matt’s hair. “I think it’s time you heard it.”

Matt stills, as he hears the change in Makalaurë’s heartbeat. It feels the same way he had felt, earlier that day, when he was climbing into Callum. Terror and hope, like standing on the verge of something new.

He could brush it off. He could tell Makalaurë he doesn’t want to know, or, maybe, tell him that he doesn’t have to talk about it.

Stick would never have offered to tell him the full story.

“Tell me.”

* * *

“I don’t get it,” Matt says, helplessly, and he can feel how still Makalaurë is on the couch beside him, how tense he and Maedhros both are, their fingers wrapped tightly around their mugs. They’ve come to the end of what Makalaurë calls the First Age, and Matt is still in shock. “I don’t get it. How could you do that?”

He understands how Stick could have killed people.

But Makalaurë. Makalaurë? With his tea, his music, the way he kisses Neniel’s temple?

It explains the calluses on his palms and fingers, in the same place as Stick’s. The way he moves, alert and balanced and lithe.

But–

_Makalaurë?_

His heartbeat is sad and unhappy, his hair swishes as his head falls forward. “It was wrong. I won’t deny that. But at the time, there seemed no other way, no way out, that we had dug ourselves into a trap, and there was no escape at all, except–” he cuts himself off, abruptly.

Maedhros’ fingers have loosened around his mug a little, as he drinks from it, and looks at Makalaurë.

It is Neniel’s voice that breaks the ensuing silence. “There is potential for good and evil in everybody, Matt. In the right circumstances, in the right time and the right place – or the right time and wrong place, or the wrong time and the wrong place – most people are capable of things they had no idea they could do. Both for good, and for ill.” She reaches across the arm-chair, picks up Makalaurë’s hand where it’s resting on the arm of the couch, and squeezes it. “Capable of choices they’d never thought they would make. But it’s still a choice. They can choose, sometimes, to look at their actions, and whether they will continue. Or whether they will choose to walk a different path.”

“Very often, they will not choose to walk a different path,” Maedhros says, sounding very grave.

“True,” Neniel says. “But nobody gets to play their part without making mistakes.” Makalaurë bites his lip, and Neniel squeezes his hand again. “The Noldor have a saying about God, and his sovereignty. That there was nothing that evil could do that could break the design. Everything that evil meant to mar it would only be turned to good, unlooked-for.”

“…that sounds like bullshit.” Not the choices thing. That kinda made sense. Kinda.

(But still. Makalaurë? _How?)_

And the last part. How did any of _that_ apply to the story they’d just heard?

Makalaurë and Neniel both laugh at that, and Maedhros takes a drink of his coffee. “Honestly, I thought so too, for the longest time,” Neniel said. “And yet…well. In the end, I found so much evidence to suggest it was true. If a great deal of evil had not occurred, you would probably not be sitting on the couch in this apartment. I wouldn’t have met Maglor, let alone married him. I would never have had Rávanen, either. It might not be worth the evil, but all of that is still good.”

“There is a lot of evidence for it,” Makalaurë says. “Much to my surprise. If you can wait and watch for long enough.”

“I won’t get to do that,” Matt says, as the thought occurs to him. “I’m not an Elf.”

“We know,” Makalaurë says, his heartbeat only slowing a little. “But…that’s part of our responsibility. We wait, and we watch, and we remember, and tell the stories.”

“Meanwhile, Men remind us that there is a time to let go, and a time to sing songs a new way, and a time to look to the future instead of the past,” Maedhros says. “And without the wisdom of Men, it is unlikely that the Elves could have ever healed from our wounds.”

Matt blinks. “There’s more to the story?”

“Oh, _lots_ more,” Neniel says, with a yawn, as Makalaurë gets up off the couch, Maedhros following suit, and going into the kitchen. In his room, Matt’s alarm clock announces that it’s seven-thirty, and Maedhros and Makalaurë start setting things on the bench for breakfast. “That’s just the first few chapters. After breakfast, I’m going to tell you all about the Second and Third Ages, and we can see what you make of them.”

“…is there a happy ending?”

“We don’t know yet,” Neniel says. "The story isn't over." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eruanna is a fair Quenya translation of "Matthew", since it derives from the Hebrew Matityahu: 'Gift of God'. And the Noldor are patriarchal, so Makalaurion it is.
> 
> Haru and Haruni mean Grandfather and Grandmother respectively. 
> 
> The Second Music refers to the remaking of the world, in Tolkien mythology. 
> 
> Anganto: Iron-mouth. I imagine that this is normally a fairly cynical pony, but Maglor is a cavalry commander, and has some experience talking horses around. He hasn't been this tractable in his LIFE. (The riding instructor watching this is deeply confused.)


	6. let nothing you dismay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas, and the final emotional bombshell for this story. But first, a look back to earlier in the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,_  
>  _Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas Day,_  
>  _To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray,_  
>  _O, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, o, tidings of comfort and joy!_  
>  – _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ , Pentatonix

April 1, 2000

Beside the nun, Matt shifts uneasily, his face clearly worried, and Neniel takes a slow breath in. Matt pays a great deal of attention to people’s breathing rhythms, she’s noticed, over the past few meetings; it seems to substitute for reading faces, for him.

“Tell me, Ms…” Sister Maggie pauses. She is still young by the measure of men, but the years have begun to show on her face, frown lines tugging at her mouth now, and grooves of anger and worry now carving themselves across her forehead and around her eyes.

“Rivers. Professor Rivers,” Neniel says, smiling at the nun. She is standing a step forward in front of Matt, and Neniel thinks of Maglor pulling the twins behind them, on hunting trips when they were young.

“Professor Rivers,” Sister Maggie says, and her voice is no less icy for using Neniel’s title. “Why didn’t you bring Matthew back immediately, each time?”

Well, if _that’s_ how she wants to play it.

She narrows her eyes in a warning: “I was curious about why a child might be wandering around after midnight.” Unspoken: alone, unsupervised, without family, and in the dark. “Please allow me to assure you that I returned Matt as soon as I believed he would stay _put_ each time.”

Matt fails to look abashed, or regretful, or remorseful about this, in any way. But why would he? The orphanage is clearly no substitute for his parents, and the gaping wound that his grief has left in him is painfully, blindingly obvious.

For a second, Maggie looks utterly stricken, agony flashing in her eyes, before her hand comes up and rubs at her forehead, her fingers hiding her eyes from view. When they come back, her expression is only mildly irritated once more.

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

“I see. When did you come to the U.S?”

“About twenty years ago,” Neniel says, and Maggie’s eyes widen in disbelief. “It's rather grown on me.”

“I see. Are you a permanent resident?”

“Yes, I am.” She and Maglor had laughed as they filled out the paperwork, as they bickered over the mathematics for converting the Years of the Trees into Years of the Sun, and from Years of the Sun into the Gregorian calendar. And then, when they'd finally worked all the maths out and submitted the paper, they'd had to deal with a phone call from a _supremely_ irritated man named Nicholas Fury.

“Are you married?”

The question is rude, entirely inappropriate – superfluous, too, considering the ring that she’s wearing – but Neniel can’t begrudge it to her. Not after seeing that degree of pain in her eyes.

_Her child is going to leave her, and she knows it._

“Yes, I am,” she says. “My husband is out of the country on business at the moment.”

“What do you teach?”

“Silvology and dendrology, the studies of forests and trees,” she replies automatically, her brain still tripping over the insight.

_Matt’s mother is standing right next to him, and he doesn’t even know it._

_This is going to be messy._

* * *

 

21st December, 2000

He leans against Makalaurë’s side and his arm slides around Matt’s shoulders, as they walk back from the park. It is snowing softly around them, and Makalaurë’s heartbeat is light and happy. The tip of Matt’s nose is cold, and there are more snowflakes falling around them, one landing on his nose and making it even colder. Matt slides his beanie down so that it covers his ears better. Behind them, Maedhros and Neniel are teasing each other in Kindi as they walk, about some incident in the 1600s.

It’s starting to feel normal to hear them talk about stuff that happened centuries ago. He can speak in Kindi and Quenya at home now; the syllables are almost normal on his tongue.

It’s starting to feel normal, for Makalaurë and Neniel to be able to tell him stories of things that happened before Matt’s father, grandfather, great-grandfather were born.

It’s starting to feel _normal_ that Makalaurë and Neniel and Maedhros are all older than the Sun and Moon.

Maybe that’s why these questions have begun to ricochet around his head, like balls thrown at a wall, bouncing ever higher and harder, the trajectory ever steeper. _Will you still remember me, in a few centuries? Will I matter to you then?_

Compared to those questions, it shouldn’t be so hard to ask this one. But it feels like it’s sticking in his throat, like the words have edges that are caught on the inside of his mouth.

Makalaurë’s thumb rubs a circle on the top of his shoulder, a gentle, silent prompt: _What is it?_

Eventually, Matt manages: “…can we go to Mass?”

“Of course,” Makalaurë says. “Christmas Eve?”

Matt nods and thinks of Dad’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake, walking hand in hand down to Saint Agnes. Dad didn’t go to church often, especially after Nana died, but he made an exception for Christmas Eve.

“Do you miss it?” Makalaurë asks. “Saint Agnes, I mean?”

Matt thinks about it for a while. “No. Not the place, or the food, or the sheets. It’s not that.” The food had made him throw up, the sheets had felt like sandpaper, and the nightmares had been nearly incessant. “I…I don’t know why. I just want to go.”

“Alright,” Makalaurë says, as though he understands completely. “That’s fine. We can do that.” He squeezes Matt’s shoulder. “Is there anything else that you used to do for Christmas, that you’d like to do this year?”

 _Not hot chocolate,_ Matt wants to say. Because Makalaurë isn’t Dad. Makalaurë isn’t Dad. Dad had had blue eyes, hummed AC/DC under his breath, had rough hands and stuttered when he got nervous, and told Matt that he was going to be the smartest kid in the world when he grew up.

Makalaurë isn’t Dad. And Neniel isn’t his Mom.

“Um. Not really,” Matt says, shrugging, and Makalaurë’s hair swishes against his beard as he nods.

“Fair enough.”

Makalaurë’s phone buzzes, and without breaking stride, he checks it, before his heart-rate accelerates, into a rhythm that Matt has heard once or twice from him before. Delight. Kid-on-summer-break delight.

“ _Nenya!”_ and that’s serious, for Makalaurë to use his Elven nickname for Neniel in public, as he turns back to look at her. A second later, Neniel gasps – she must have heard Makalaurë’s thought, then? – and then laughs, a bright laugh that sounds like springtime, before she flings her arms around Makalaurë and Matt both. Matt’s heart squeezes at the sound, and he nestles his head underneath her arm.

The hug hurriedly breaks up, when another walker curses at them.

Matt looks up at Makalaurë, and a second later, feels him bend down. Makalaurë’s kiss lands on Matt’s nose, quick, soft, warm. “Matt, how do you feel about meeting some more of the family today?”

* * *

 

“You must be Matt!”

“What gave that away, Finrod?” Maedhros asks, coming over to stand behind Matt. Makalaurë is stepping out of the elevator now, wheeling two bags behind him, and Matt can hear Neniel running up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

As Finrod bends, his hand extended towards Matt, and then hesitates, all Matt can think is: _you don’t_ sound _like you’d kill a werewolf with your teeth_.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Matt says, his voice level.

Finrod’s grip is gentle, not as enthusiastic or energetic as Matt had been expecting. Callused, but in different places from Maedhros’ and Maglor’s. “I’m _delighted_ to meet you, Matt. I’m Finrod, son of Arafinwë. I was hoping it could be sooner, but there was that whole mess in New Zealand…but we’re here now. And we brought gifts!”

“You di–” Matt cuts himself off, reluctant to lose any more of his allowance, and corrects himself: “thank you.” He’s Maglor’s cousin. Matt’s not sure what that makes him to Matt. A cousin? An uncle?

“Trust me, he was happy to do it,” says the woman besides Finrod, and her voice is musical and a little lower than normal. She moves like Neniel, and the same smell of electricity hangs in the air around her, mixing with some kind of perfume. She’s not as tall as either Neniel or Makalaurë, though. Only six feet. “Hi, Matt. How’s it going?”

She doesn’t move to touch him, or to shake his hand, but her voice is friendly. Lower than Neniel’s, and melodic, and with something about the rhythm that reminds Matt of water as well.

Matt smiles at her, and extends a hand. “Hi. Vanessa, or Vanessë?”

“Either,” she says, taking it and shaking it. Her grip isn’t callused like Makalaurë’s around the palms, but there are calluses on the tips of her fingers. Guitar strings, maybe, or some other instrument. “I’m used to both. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry I didn’t come any sooner.”

“It’s fine. Did it go okay? The thing you were doing?”

“Well, it was a rather big mess to clean up. But we’ve made a good start, at least,” she says. “Can I give you a hug?”

Matt thinks about it for a second, and then he nods.

Vanessa’s hugs aren’t fever-warm like Makalaurë’s. Her arms are loose and relaxed, and her hair is curly against his cheek.

He breathes in the familiar traces of electricity, the smell of safety and warmth and affection, and leans into the hug a little more.

* * *

 

Dinner is crowded and takes a long time to arrive that night. Maedhros and Makalaurë work as a seamless team in the kitchen, but Finrod keeps hovering over their shoulders, getting underfoot. Neniel has drawn both Vanessa and Matt over to the couch, pulling them both on either side of her. Vanessa is half-lounging on Neniel, her head on Neniel’s chest, and her arm wrapped around Neniel’s shoulders; Matt sits down on Neniel’s other side, and listens to the story of Vanessa’s campaigns in Australia and New Zealand.

When Neniel’s arm comes up and wraps around him, Matt settles his head on her other side. It’s so easy to lean into the touch now.

“So what happened next?” Neniel asks, the hand around Vanessa coming up to comb through her hair, the way it combs through Matt’s hair, often enough.

“I’m _getting_ to that, Emmá,” Vanessa laughs.

Matt frowns. That one’s new, but from context…

“‘Emmá’ means Mom?”

Vanessa nods. “Emmá,” she says, tapping on Neniel’s shoulder. “And then, well, you call him Makalaurë, but I’ve always called him Atto. Quenya for him, not Kindi.”

Emmá, and Atto. Mom and Dad. Makalaurë and Neniel haven’t taught him Elvish words for family yet, and Matt commits them to memory. _Emmá and Atto_.

“So what happened next, sweetheart?”

“Hm, well…oh! I should have mentioned it earlier. Have you heard that there’s a movie of that book that Tolkien wrote? The one about the Ring War?”

“One of my grad students has been speculating about it for the past nine months,” Neniel says. “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

“Uncle Finrod is playing an Orc in it.”

From the kitchen, there is a sudden shout of laughter from Makalaurë, startled and bright and golden, and Uncle Maedhros snorts, chuckling as well.

“Not satisfied with your first performance, then?” Maedhros asks, and his voice is amused, affectionate, all at once.

Finrod laughs. “The House of Fëanor aren’t the only ones with high standards! And I’ve been working on it for a long time, you know. I must have gotten a bit better, in all those years!”

Matt tilts his head to the side. “How long?”

There is a long, long moment of silence from the kitchen. And then Uncle Maedhros announces, with conviction: “Twelve thousand, five-hundred and twenty-nine years.”

Twelve thousand years, and they still remember the way Finrod died. Twelve thousand years, and they haven’t forgotten the way Finrod and Beren got caught. But they can laugh about it now.

Something tight and aching eases in Matt’s chest. The thought isn’t some great epiphany, there is no sound like a thunderclap. It’s more like a whisper of rain and wind.

 _They’ll remember me._  

* * *

 

Christmas Eve, 2000

“Can I go and talk to Maggie for a second?” Matt asks Makalaurë.

“Of course,” Makalaurë says, getting up out of the pew.

“Um,” Matt says, his grip tightening around his cane. He licks his lips. “Can I talk to her alone?”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” Makalaurë says. Matt hugs him quickly, and then slips off to the leftmost aisle of the sanctuary, where Sister Maggie is keeping watch as the kids from the orphanage slowly file out. They’re going back out towards the courtyard, and from there, they’ll go back to their dorms.

She makes to move, and then she stops, her heartbeat accelerating into a quicker as her head turns in his direction, and she whispers for Claudia to go instead. Then she walks to him.

“Matthew,” she says. Her voice is low, rough, _human,_ and Matt feels affection surging through him, for the tough old nun. So he hugs her, his arms wrapping around her waist, as they had around Makalaurë’s a minute before.

“Hi, Sister Maggie.”

Her heartbeat skips a beat, before she laughs, wry and amused, even as her heartbeat saddens a little. “I’m glad to see you back at Mass.”

“Good to be back.” He hesitates, before asking the question at last. “Sister Maggie, do you know anything about my Mom?”

Again, that skip in her heartbeat, and this time, a tang of adrenaline in the air as Matt breathes in.

“The Professor? Enough. Why, what are you trying to find out?”

“Not her. My birth Mom. You know who she is.”

Maggie’s heart accelerates

“What makes you think that?”

Her voice is even and level, and if it weren’t for the fact that her heart is hammering, he’d buy it.

“I know you know,” Matt says, gripping the cane tighter. “I _know_. Earlier this year, we were in the courtyard, and the Professor wanted to adopt me, and I said–” the words stick in his throat this time, and forcing them out feels like dragging shards of glass up and out of his throat and mouth. “I said that my Mom didn’t want me, and you said you knew that wasn’t true. That you were sure of it.”

And it had been a lie, and Maggie believed it was a lie when she spoke it. She _knew_ why Matt’s mother hadn’t wanted him.

“Oh, well,” Maggie says, and she gives a laugh like the kind adults normally do when questioned about the tooth fairy, or whether the adult would _really_ sell their soul for a cup of coffee. “I didn’t mean that I had interviewed her about the subject, Matt.”

“You’re lying again,” Matt says. “The way I do. Maybe it’s not even a real lie, but you’re not telling the truth. You don’t think that I deserve the truth, Sister?”

He feels her flinch, the way that she rocks back on her heels, before she takes another deep breath. “That’s a highly inappropriate thing to say, Matt.”

“It’s highly accurate, Sister.”

She lets out her breath slowly, and he remembers that from long afternoons here, where he would goad her, snap and snark at her, and she would try and hold her peace, and he could almost feel her counting to ten. But it had been better than no reaction at all.

After ten seconds exactly, she nods, as though she’s come to a decision. “Come with me.”

* * *

 

She leads him towards the confessional, walking in silence. Her heartbeat speeds as she walks, even though they’re not going fast, and he can feel the clamminess building on her hands.

He stops just before they reach the curtain. “Father Lantom’s not in there.”

She snorts. “No. But this is the place on the property that offers the greatest degree of privacy.”

“True.” Matt grips his cane a little tighter. “Are you done stalling?”

“Still a cactus, I see,” she says, taking another deep breath. Her fists clench and unclench for a moment. She’s angry at him. Well, that makes sense. It’s not like he’s been playing _nice_.

But then, after another moment, her heartbeat slows, as though returning to a sense of calm. “I did expect this day to come. I just never thought it would come this soon.” She sighs, her heartbeat slowing even more, until the rhythm is almost sad. “Please, Matthew. I was very young at the time. Well, not all that young, I suppose. But young, unsure of myself, unsure whether the path I was on was the right one. And then, after you were born, I was overwhelmed. It felt as though the weight of my life, the weight of the _world_ was on me. I couldn’t stay with Jack.”

The world tilts.

Matt sits down, his sunglasses crumpling and twisting in his fingers.

“ _You.”_

He hears fabric rustling as she leans over. Her dry, rough fingers wrap around his, trying to untangle his clenched fist, but he snatches his hand away.

“You – you were _right there_ and you _let me think–_ ” his voice is raised now, and his fists are clenching tighter, the fragments of the sunglasses digging further into his hand, and Maggie Murdock – his _mother_ – _Sister Maggie_ – makes a worried noise, trying even harder to unwind his fist. “Every year, when Nana and Dad and I came to Mass, and then last November, when Dad _fucking died–_ ”

“Matt,” she says, and there is worry threading into her voice, “Matt, _Matthew_ –”

He hears the sound of Dad’s body had been lowered into the ground, the soft, final _thud_ , feels the worn, itching sheets of the orphanage underneath him again, remembers the suffocating smells of the other boys in the dorm room that first night, as the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen had closed in around him. Unable to breathe, unable to think, alone, alone, trapped in his world of flame and noise and chaos.

“I was alone,” he says, and she flinches. _Good._ “I was alone, I’d lost Dad, I’d lost Nana, and I was alone. Dad had left. Nana had left. _You_ left.”

“Matthew, I–”

“You left me alone!”

The Sister chokes. “I tried,” she whispers to the air, her voice rosary-low. “When you came here. I tried to look after you. To make up for it.”

The silence is broken by their breathing, his fast and quick and angry, and hers shallow, gasping. Both their worlds, spinning out of control.

“Right,” Matt says. “Because a lullaby here and there fixes _everything._ Of course it does. I left you alone since you were a baby, but hey, I sang to you once or twice!” He shakes his head, as the other words pile up in his throat, about the nights when he cried in his bed, the nights when he _screamed_ , and she didn’t come. Nobody did. “You wanted to make up for it? You failed.”

He gets up and turns on his heel. She is still kneeling on the floor behind him, and on his second step, she gives a cry, like a half-suppressed wail, before she chokes on it. Matt turns back towards her, feels the words forming on his tongue: _are you okay, I’m sorry, don’t cry_.

Then another sob shakes her, and he is still that boy crying in his bed, sobbing in an inferno of a world, alone, alone, alone.

_No._

He keeps walking back into the sanctuary, back to Makalaurë and Neniel. They’re silent, their heart-beats slow and sad all at once, and they smell like worry.

His face is wet and there is salt on his tongue, when he walks straight to Neniel.

“Matt,” Neniel whispers, her clear, strong spring-voice soaked in worry. “Matt.”

Matt shakes his head, burying his head in her ribs. A beat, two, three, and her arms pick him up, settling him against her chest like he’s a baby once again.

* * *

 

Maglor reaches for their bond, when they’re a block away from their building. He has kept up a soft, Quenya lullaby, careful to keep his voice bare of any power, using the song only to comfort, rather than to lull. _Neniel, did you know?_

She shrugs. Matt has consented to let her carry him, and he’s silent in her arms. There is no sobbing and the tears have stopped, but when she touches his mind, there is a storm of grief and fury and loneliness there. _I never asked_ , she tells Maglor. _But I suspected._

He does not sigh, but the picture of resignation on his face is one that she has put there too many times to not recognise. _And it wasn’t your story to tell, so you said nothing._

She nods, still numb, as she has felt since inside the sanctuary. It really hadn’t taken much effort at all to position herself so that she could overhear the words. She had heard Maggie speak, and felt the sudden rage blooming across the surface of Matt’s mind, and beneath that rage, heard echoes of a desolate, soul-deep shriek. Like the cry of an abandoned otter pup, or wolf cub.

And his words. Sweet Eru, those _words_.

 _Because a lullaby here and there fixes everything!_ The sarcasm in Matt’s voice had been so brittle and bitter that Neniel had nearly wept, and the barb had not even been aimed at her.

 _What have I done to him?_ she asks her husband.

 _Could you have stopped this?_ His eyes still shine with the light of the Trees, and the streetlights set it to glinting, even as he glances down at Matt’s form in her arms, worry in his gaze. _I don’t know that telling him sooner would have actually achieved anything. Even though he did have a right to know._

Another voice reaches for her, a sound like a conch shell blown like a horn. Finrod. He never could ignore somebody in distress, and his sensitivity to the hearts and minds of others is even keener than her own. She’s never envied him that.

Finrod’s _faelin_ sings to her: _he loves you. He does. He’s just frightened of it._

Truth. As real as the concrete under her feet, as real as the air against her fingers, as real as the tears freezing on her face.

They walk into the apartment building, and Matt’s breathing evens out, soothed at last by the warmth of the lobby and Maglor’s song.

* * *

 

Matt wakes up with a warm, strong body curled against his front, and a softer body behind him, and hair tickling his face. It’s harder than usually to move the fingers of his right hand, and it takes him a moment to realise that the scratching, itching sensation around the palm of his hand is a dressing.

The sheets are itching underneath his skin, scratching at him more than they normally do. When he breathes in, scent flooding into his mouth and nose, he realises why.

“Good morning,” Makalaurë says, his breath drifting through Matt’s hair. It’s warm, like all of the rest of Makalaurë: hands, voice, smell, skin.

Matt blinks, still groggy, and shifts in the bed. Neniel makes a murmuring noise behind him, as she comes awake. Then her lips press against the back of Matt’s head, and her voice is soft and clear.

“How are you feeling?”

Matt blinks, as the events of last night come rushing back, fury quickly following memory. _Sister Maggie is my Mom._

Except that she didn’t ever walk up the streets to visit him, when Dad was still alive. Except that she never told him when he came to the orphanage. Except that even when Makalaurë and Neniel adopted him, she didn’t tell him.

She gave birth to him. She hadn’t been lying about that. But.

“I’m fine, Emmá,” Matt says, and Neniel’s heartbeat skips once, before turning sad and heavy and slow in her chest.

“Matt,” she says, and her voice is hitching, her breath catching. Almost like she’s uncomfortable. But that doesn’t make sense, they’re the ones who showed him the family tree, who put them in there alongside their daughter, who wrote _son of Neniel, Maglor_ after his name. “ _Matt_.”

“Isn’t that the right word?” Matt asks, and his voice is a very convincing fake innocent, even as he licks his lips, because…

Please, please, _please_ , not again. Not again. Not again. Not after Stick, not after last night, not after Dad.

Makalaurë sighs, and then his warm finger taps Matt on the cheek, once, twice, three times. Not hard, but sharp enough to signal that he wants Matt’s attention. “Yes, it’s the correct word. But you are very obviously angry, and grieving, and hurting. It’s the right word, but now is not the right time.” His hand settles gently on Matt’s face, and his thumb rubs over Matt’s cheek, where he had tapped it before. “We love you, Matt. Far, far too much to let you ignore what you learned last night, and let it eat away at you.”

“So once again,” Neniel says, her hand rubbing a circle into his back, the pressure gentle and firm as always. “The truth. How are you feeling?”

The silence stretches unbroken, the only sound that of Neniel’s hand rubbing against the fabric of Matt’s T-shirt.

Matt swallows.

_How am I feeling?_

Cold. Tired. Like there was nothing left in him, like the sound a gas tank made, when the last dregs of fuel were used up and the car sputtered to a halt.

“I don’t know.”

“Better,” Neniel says, kissing his temple. “You don’t have to know how you feel about it yet. Give it time. When you want to talk about it, we’ll be here.”

Makalaurë makes a noise of agreement, and his warm kiss lands on Matt’s forehead. “And in the meantime, we should get breakfast going. Vanessë and Finrod and Maedhros will all be waiting for us to give them the signal to come over. That is, if you’re feeling up to it, Matt.”

Matt blinks. “They didn’t come home with us last night?” Finrod had been staying in a hotel, but Vanessa and Maedhros had stayed in the apartment too. Why hadn’t they come back?

“We all heard all of it,” Neniel says. “Our senses might not be like yours, but they’re certainly much better than the average human’s. So Finrod and Maedhros thought they’d give us some privacy this morning, and have been sitting on Rávanen to keep it that way,” Neniel says, a wry note in her voice. “It’s about as much privacy as Elves can give each other.”

Matt snorts, and she and Makalaurë both laugh too. It's a little less bright than it normally is, and there's a deep undercurrent of relief running through it. But it's a laugh.

“Okay,” Matt says. “Okay.” A thought occurs to him. “Can we have pancakes this morning?”

Both of them laugh again, less relieved, and more amused. Neniel kisses his temple, before she sits up. “I think we can manage that.”

* * *

 

Finrod stays until the day after Boxing Day, and then he flies out to England. The apartment is quieter, now that Christmas is over. Vanessa and Neniel go for runs around Central Park. They come back in laughing, their heartbeats racing, hair still damp with water and ice crystals and snowflakes, reporting gossip from the bodies of water in the Park, and dripping on the towels that Makalaurë and Maedhros put down over their seats. Makalaurë starts teaching Matt to play the harp in the evenings, and sometimes recruits Vanessa into the lessons, singing harmonies to Makalaurë’s melodies. She never laughs when Matt fumbles the strings, even if her heartbeat turns amused, and she can pick a harmony for any note that Makalaurë sings, without even a second’s hesitation.

“It’s an inheritance,” is all she says, when Matt asks her how long it took her to learn it.

Matt’s fingers start to turn sore and blistered at the fingertips, over and around the Braille calluses. Each time after they finish practising, Makalaurë takes him into the bathroom and inspects the blisters, and announces each time that Matt is going to have a fine set of calluses soon.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks Matt each time, his long, strong fingers gently rubbing some kind of ointment over the blisters.

Each time, Matt’s answer is the same: “No.”

Each time, Makalaurë nods and says that he understands. But he can’t and he doesn’t. Makalaurë knew his mother. Grandmother Nerdanel. He knew her, and he knew that she loved him, and that’s _not_ Makalaurë’s fault.

It makes Matt’s fists clench all the same.

* * *

 

January 3, 2001

Makalaurë and Maedhros are in the kitchen with Matt, and their hands are moving over his, guiding him through the steps to making a Noldorin dish for lunch. Neniel and Vanessa are going to be out for a long run today, not expected back before early afternoon. As he dumps the garlic cloves in the sauce, Maedhros tells the story of the first time he cooked for Neniel, and he unintentionally put much, much more chili in the dish than she was able to handle, and then when the tears escaped her eyes, he tried giving her yoghurt.

The yoghurt which, if she ate it, would induce awful stomach cramps and spasms of vomiting.

“She came home that night,” Makalaurë says, through his laughter, “looked me straight in the eye, and said: ‘Love, I think your brother just tried to kill me.’”

Maedhros snorts. “She was quite gracious about it to me. But I learned much better, after that.”

Makalaurë huffs another laugh. “You did. You really have to go back next week?”

“Not all my duties can be done by email, you know that,” Maedhros says, rescuing the paprika bottle from Matt’s hand. “Matt, it absolutely doesn’t need that much paprika.”

Matt swallows. He’d heard them mention it before when Finrod left, but…

“You’re really going?” His voice sounds much smaller and higher-pitched than he’d like it to be.

“Yes,” Maedhros says. He sets the bottle down and his hand squeezes Matt’s shoulder. “I can’t stay here forever. But I should be able to visit you every few months or so, and I’ll certainly come back for next Thanksgiving, and Christmas.”

“Oh.” His chest hurts. Matt reaches for the salt bottle, and shakes some of it into the mix.

“But I’m not gone yet,” Uncle Maedhros says, and his voice is gentle. “If you’d like, we could go down to the gym, and you could show me that spinning kick Maglor says you’re so proud of?”

Matt forces the words out around the lump in his throat. “I’d like that.” Then a thought occurs to him. “But the eggs–”

“We don’t have to go right now,” Maedhros says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Matt’s gotten a bit better at reading him, over the past five weeks. Maedhros is not just talking about the gym.

Matt takes a deep breath, and nods. “Today’s good.” 

* * *

 

Maedhros hasn’t come to the gym with him before. That had been Matt’s time with Makalaurë and with Neniel, once the Christmas break had kicked in.

He ties his hair up as Matt cocks his head to the side, and then leads him into an empty room. There are gym mats on the floor, and the whole room smells like sweat and exertion.

“Do you like wrestling or boxing better?” Maedhros asks him.

He’s getting better at wrestling. Makalaurë keeps working with him on it. But…

“Boxing.”

He’s always going to love boxing best. He’d known how to throw a good right hook from the time he was old enough to make a fist.

Maedhros nods, as he loops his hair up into a messy bun. “Fair enough.”

He stands on his toes, light and balanced, the same way Makalaurë stands. They had the same teacher.

“Can we land punches?”

Maedhros nods, but then adds: “Keep it light, though. You’re my nephew, not my enemy. You know how to pull them, don’t you?”

Matt nods. The order makes sense, considering everything Uncle Maedhros went through.

He’s light on his feet, and his stance is balanced. But Maedhros is still over eight feet tall.

No brainer, then.

Matt dives forward for his legs, trying to sweep them out from underneath him, in the low-style kicks that Neniel favours. Maedhros laughs and dodges back, his jump easily taking him out of range of Matt’s whirling legs easily. _Dammit._

“A good idea,” Maedhros says, his voice filled with a smile. “If you’re faced with a bean-pole like me. What next?”

Matt flips up off his hands and onto his feet, jumping forward into range and then punching for Maedhros’ groin; Maedhros’ knee comes up, taking the punch and almost making contact with Matt’s chest, before Matt steps to the right and aims a punch to the back of Maedhros’ knee.

The punch lands, and Maedhros hisses, pivoting and twisting to try and trap Matt, but that puts him in _Matt’s_ territory, as he stoops awkwardly to compensate for the height difference, and Matt leaps up onto Maedhros’ back. He wraps his arms around Maedhros’ neck, but is careful to keep the touch very, very light, and Maedhros snorts, his head shaking.

His hands come up over Matt’s arms, resting there.

“Hold,” Maedhros says, and Matt nods, relaxing his legs’ grip around Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros’ hand pats Matt’s arm gently. “Not bad at all, _pitya._ You learned half of that from Neniel, didn’t you?”

Matt nods, his nose brushing against Maedhros’ bun of silky hair.

“And the other half? Your father?”

Matt bites his lip, and then shakes his head. “No. A coach, at the orphanage. He...taught me about my senses.”

Without warning, Maedhros sits, and Matt scrambles off his back. Maedhros’ long arm reaches out, with enough strength to his grip to make it an invitation to lean against him.

Matt takes it, leaning his head against Maedhros’ arm. “I see. What happened to him? Maglor didn’t mention him.”

“He left,” Matt says, and shrugs. “Nothing new there.” Because really, it _wasn’t_ anything new. It just hurt all the same.

Maedhros’ hand squeezes his shoulder, and he is silent for a while, before he speaks. “It’s a harsh lesson to learn, that the people we love most are always going to wound us in some way. I’m sorry that it’s been battered into you so much.”

Matt swallows. “She was _right there_. The whole time, she was right there, and she could have told me.”

“That’s true,” Maedhros agrees, his thumb rubbing a circle into Matt’s shoulder. “Matt, can I ask you something?” Matt nods. “We told you the story of the First Age. You know what Maglor and I did to the world. How have you been dealing with that?”

Matt thinks back to the long walk that he and Neniel had taken around the park on Pier 84 and sighs. “Neniel talked to me. About how she’d felt, when Makalaurë told her the story. Angry, betrayed, hurt. But then she realised that he was still the same person. The fact that you and he attacked Sirion didn’t change the fact that he cooked the rabbits for the campfire. And the cooking didn’t erase Sirion, either. All she could do was try and see him for who he was. That made sense.”

“People are complicated like that. I had to try and see my father through a similar lens, in the end. The fact that he made us swear the Oath twice didn’t erase all the love he gave us, during our childhood. But – this was a bitter pill to swallow – nor did the love he sustained us on during our childhood justify or erase the damage done by the Oath.”

Matt swallows. “You think I should forgive her.”

“That’s up to you,” Maedhros says, and he switches to rubbing Matt’s back. “No-one can take that choice from you. Forgiveness is like love. It can’t be compelled. But this much, I know, from seeing it time and time again. If a dog has a wound that is festering – an infected wound, let’s say – it will often try and curl around the wound, and lick it. Snap and snarl at someone who dares to touch it. But if that animal doesn’t let someone heal the wound, the infection will not stop. It will spread.” Maedhros pauses, the way he does when a new thought is occurring to him, and joining with the old thought. “I think that’s why, in the end, your Father Lantom preaches about forgiveness. It’s not a question of merit. It’s a question of life.”

“But if you can’t compel forgiveness, then how do you do it?” Matt asks, frustration filling him. “What do I _do?_ This, this, this _shit_ isn’t an infection! I can’t just dump some antiseptic on this!”

“You can’t compel forgiveness,” Maedhros agrees calmly. “You can’t compel any heart to heal. Not even your own. But I said that forgiveness was like love: it comes with time. It comes with understanding people. Not just observing them. You’re very good at that part, Matt. But you have to look at them as a person, too. Flawed, marred, strong in some ways and weak in others. Not always enough, in a world where not even love and doing the right thing are always enough to make things turn out alright. And you have to forgive yourself, in the end. Because you’re just a person, too.”

Matt freezes at that.

 _Forgive yourself_.

The first, tempting reaction is to say that _he_ didn’t do anything to be forgiven for. But that’s not all the way true. Not when he can hear the memory of his voice running over Thurgood Marshall’s speech. _Justice cannot take root amid rage._

_Forgive myself. For what I said to Dad._

Around the sudden thickness in his throat, he manages: “All of us are marred in Arda Marred?”

“So Neniel and her family say. I think she takes the marring of the world a little personally, myself.” Maedhros rubs his back. “Does that help, any?”

Matt leans his head against his uncle’s shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Maedhros plants a kiss on the crown of Matt’s head. Then his hand wraps around Matt’s, hauling him up to his feet. “Come on. You promised to show me that kick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Finrod as an Orc in the Lord of the Rings movies is one of bunn’s ideas. I lost it laughing, so I had to put it in here. 
> 
> 2\. The dirty dairy disaster of 2000 was a case of dairy farming expansionism causing extensive freshwater pollution. This seems like the kind of thing a river’s granddaughter would poke her nose into. 
> 
> 3\. The dish that Maglor and Maedhros are teaching Matt to make is not Noldorin in origin, as much as it’s a Mannish dish that the Noldor returned to Middle-Earth have adopted. Specifically, _shakshouka_ from North Africa. Eggs and a tomato sauce, with paprika, cayenne, and cumin. It is far, far too spicy for Neniel, when done to standards that Maglor and Maedhros feel are flavourful.
> 
> 4\. Forgiveness as a question of life, rather than merit, was a big part of my upbringing and is an enormous part of my faith. If that's something you want to talk to me about, feel free to hit me up. I recognise it’s not something that everybody believes, and you are, naturally, free to disagree. 
> 
> That said, I do think it’s something that Maedhros son of Fëanor would say, and something very, very relevant to the Elves. Thearrogantemu puts it beautifully in her ‘Though All Whom Ye Have Slain Should Entreat For You’: 'And no one can leave Mandos without having forgiven, in some part, the one who killed them - at least so far as to be willing to accept their existence. Otherwise, Aman would be a nothing but a dueling ground where the Returned pursued endless revenge against each other."' 
> 
> 5\. Neniel’s thoughts on Arda Marred are something I want to explore in the ‘clear water’ verse soon. 
> 
> 6\. ‘ Democracy just cannot flourish amid fear. Liberty cannot bloom amid hate. Justice cannot take root amid rage.’ Lines quoted in Season 1 Episode 2, ‘Cut Man’, from Thurgood Marshall’s Liberty Medal acceptance speech.
> 
> 7\. Maedhros and Matt’s relationship has developed quite a bit, I know. Sorry about the time-lapses. To showcase more of this, I am planning a side-fic going into more detail about their Christmas celebrations. But because semester is heating up, that’s not going to appear immediately. (*sulks* All I want is a time machine. Is that too much to ask?)


	7. we always find our way back home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a wild Fëanor appears, second chances are granted, and Matt Murdock gets more hugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _La-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah,_  
>  _La-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-doe,_  
>  _(Hey) And no matter where we go,_  
>  _We always find our way back home._  
>  – Back Home, Andy Grammer

**Wednesday, 17th January, 2001 **

She is kneeling at the altar when he comes into the sanctuary, coming to the end of the rosary. His cane taps against the wooden floor. She has a candle burning. The smell of smoke hangs in the cold morning air, mixing with the chill off the floor.

She gets up as he approaches, turning to face him. There is no tension in her body; not even the normal state of alertness, the tension she carries across her shoulders from looking after the kids.

 _Like a spring with all its strength gone_ , he thinks.

Matt takes a deep breath. “Hi.”

The fabric of her wimple rustles against her dress as she nods. “Good morning.” Another rustle as she turns to look at the light. “It’s early. Do the Professor and Mr Fenway know that you’re here?”

Matt shrugs, and dodges the question. “It _is_ early. You always used to get up earlier than everybody else. Come down here and say a rosary or three.”

“Did it wake you up?”

Matt shrugs again. “I wasn’t asleep all that often.”

The silence hangs heavily between them, and Matt licks his lips, as she blows out the candle. Then she says: “I’m sorry.” She turns towards him, and he can hear her huff a laugh. “Ten years at this, and you think I’d have learned. Everything I said, I said about what I did. And I didn’t apologise for the fact that I hurt you.” She steps toward him, and her hand lands on his shoulder, and it is gentle as it squeezes. Not the hug of a Mom, but the touch of a teacher, a friend. “And I am sorry for hurting you, Matt. I’m so sorry for leaving.”

It’s tempting to slam the retorts out again, loose them like arrows flying from a bow, when _sorry for leaving_ doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t do it again. But…

 _See her as a person_.

Flawed and marred; weak and strong at the same time.

She’s not his Mom. But…

A rough, raspy alto, singing lullabies. Not just once. Night after night. Waking him up and holding his hand. A dry hand in the midst of his sensory hell, a hand that he clung to like a lifeline, the year before.

“Why did you do it?” he asks. He has to know. He has to know _why_. “Why did you let them adopt me?”

Maggie takes a deep breath. “Because you needed more care than we could give you. More attention, more time. More affection, more touch. _More_. I couldn’t…I couldn’t give you that. Not like this. But I knew that they could.”

He thinks back to the way her heartbeat had turned sad and slow, that day in the courtyard, when they talked about Maglor and Neniel adopting him. The broken, hitching laugh, when he’d asked if she’d miss him.

 _She cared_.

 _His friendship didn’t erase the Havens of Sirion,_ the memory of Neniel’s voice whispers to him. _And Sirion did not erase his friendship._

Matt makes his decision.

“Father Lantom told me a story about Saint Augustine once,” Matt says. “How he walked down a street, and someone from his old life came to say hello to him. ‘Augustine, Augustine, it’s me,’ and he said–”

“‘Yes. But it is no longer I,’” the Sister finishes.

Matt nods, and sticks out his hand. “Hi. I’m Matt Murdock.”

There’s hope in her heartbeat, as she takes his hand, even as she is silent for a moment. Then: “Hello, Matt. I’m Sister Maggie.”

* * *

 

He’d timed the exit deliberately, slipping out between her leaving for a morning run, and Makalaurë getting up to make breakfast. Evidently, she and Makalaurë had worked that part out, because Neniel meets him out the front of the apartment building, and her voice is stern, her running bag thumping against her thigh.

“I didn’t realise that you needed a reminder,” she says. “But sneaking out of the apartment is still not appropriate.”

Matt’s fingers slide up and down the fabric loop of the cane, the rough texture comforting against his skin. “I know. It’s just…”

He’d had to go. He’d _had_ to.

She sighs, and her kiss lands on his forehead. “Next time, _talk to us_ , Matt. If there’s something on your mind, if you have to go and do something, tell us, and explain.”

“You let it be between me and Maggie the first time.”

“And I’m still not sure as to whether that was the right decision.” Her fingers close over at his, and he can feel her gaze on him. “Although you seem to have reached a decision of your own about Maggie.”

Matt sighs. “He was right. Uncle Maedhros. She’s just…a person.” He shrugs. “Just like Makalaurë. Or you.” Neniel nods, understanding, and Matt goes on. “I’m going to go back and visit. Maybe hang around after Mass on Sundays, or something.”

Neniel’s hair rustles as she stands. “Fair enough. Now come back inside. You need to eat something before school.”

* * *

 

** Saturday, 4th February, 2001 **

He wakes up to the sound of the apartment door opening, the wood creaking under unfamiliar foot-steps, and a cacophony of overpowering smells, all mixing in together, and he clenches his fists into his palms, focussing on the dig of his nails against his skin, the sound of his breath in and out of his lungs, the shifting of his bones as he breathes.

Slowly, Matt lets the rest of the world back in.

The floor creaks once more. Two people. Male and female. Whoever she is, she’s not a threat; she’s built strongly, but she doesn’t move like a fighter. The man beside her, though, is very tall, very big, and despite the fact that he doesn't move like a fighter, every single instinct Matt has screams that _he_ would be a problem.

…Why has an intruder brought _cake_ into the apartment?

“Fëanáro! You’ll wake him,” whispers the woman, in fluid Quenya.

Matt blinks.

Well. That answers that question.

More foot-steps. Neniel walks into the kitchen area, and judging by her heartbeat, she’s a little irritated. But she’s not frightened or angry. Makalaurë walks into the kitchen behind her, before switching directions and walking across the room to Matt’s door.

Matt hurriedly drops the cane, sits down on the bed, and tries to decide whether looking innocent and sleepy is a viable tactic.

“Atar. Emel,” Neniel says. “Are those balloons?”

“You said it was the day of his birth,” the other woman says, still in Quenya, and Matt adds the names together, and blinks. “It is the day of birth that they celebrate, isn’t it, and not the begetting day?”

Makalaurë opens the door to Matt’s room.

“Good morning, Matt,” he says, closing it behind him.

Matt nods. “Morning.”

Makalaurë sits down on the bed beside him, and holds up his arm, and Matt takes the offered invitation, ducking under his arm so that it wraps around Matt’s shoulders.

“Did you hear them when they entered the building?” Makalaurë asks.

Matt shakes his head. “Just the apartment. That was only a couple of minutes ago.”

“Hm. They must be getting better,” Makalaurë says, and his voice is pitched to carry the next words. “Caranthir and I used to say that a herd of elephants would make less noise than Atar in the morning.”

There’s the sound of a fist – Fëanor’s – rapping sharply on the wall at that, and Nerdanel laughing a protest, and Matt smiles too.

“You just hate mornings.”

“Foul slander,” Makalaurë says, but there’s a laugh in his voice as he says it. “I do not hate mornings. I am skeptical that the sun rising means someone should immediately evacuate their bed.”

“In other words, you hate mornings,” Matt says, and he gets up off the bed, before calling out in Quenya. “ _Aiya, Haru Fëanáro! Aiya, Haruni Nerdanel! Anda lenda?[1]_”

In the main room, there is a pause, and then a deep, rumbling voice calling back. Fëanor.

“ _Ui, la. Elen síla lumenn’ omentielvo, Eruanna, indyonya,_ ” Fëanor says, and then he pauses. The next words come out in English. “Although perhaps speaking in English would be more appropriate? We are in the world of Men right now, and not in Elvenhome.”

“If you want,” Matt says, switching back with him, pulling on clean clothes. “I don’t mind either way.”

“His Kindi is getting better, too,” Neniel says, as he walks into the kitchen. Nerdanel is approaching him, and Matt lets her pull him forward into a hug. There is no pause or hesitation before it, no instance where she studies him and sizes him up.

Nerdanel’s arms are warm, and she smells like the stone of the kitchen counters and vanilla. “I am so glad to meet you, Eruanna.”

There is nothing but golden light and affection in her voice, and Matt smiles into her shoulder. “Me too.” When he leans back a little bit, her arms immediately loosen – so she’s observant too, then – and Matt turns to Fëanor. He kneels in front of Matt, and takes Matt’s hands in his, making no motion to draw him into a hug.

Well, Matt can work with that.

He feels Fëanor’s hands carefully, cataloguing it all. No burn scars, like the one that Makalaurë has on the palm of his right hand. No calluses on the tips of the fingers like Makalaurë and Neniel both have. No calluses around the palm from weapons, either. But strong. Very, _very_ strong, even if it is weirdly unscarred.

…Correction. One scar, on the top of the index finger of the left hand. Matt taps it, curiously. “What happened?”

“I was clumsy while cutting vegetables for dinner last week,” Fëanor says, a wry laugh in his voice. “There is, alas, no great tale associated with it.”

Matt thinks about his Dad stepping into the ring, knowing he was not going to step back out, going into the best fight of his life, and an edge slips into his voice as he replies. “Stories are overrated, sometimes.”

Fëanor’s heart skips a beat, shock racing through him. Then, as Makalaurë takes a breath to speak, his toes flex inside his boots, the shifting of weight audible to Matt, even through the muffling of fabric and socks.

When Makalaurë speaks, his voice is so casual that Matt knows he is intervening, and breaking his study.

“Matt. Matt, would you please get the mugs out? Thank you. Atar, Amil, would either of you like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be wonderful, Makalaurë. Thank you.” Fëanor’s voice is even when he replies, as though the shock that curled through him had never occurred.

Was it the anger in Matt’s voice that had made him flinch back? Makalaurë and Neniel wouldn’t have flinched at that, and nor would have Uncle Maedhros. Why had Fëanor been so shocked?

The silence lingers for another moment, as Matt joins Makalaurë in the kitchen, and starts getting the mugs out of the cupboard. They clink as Matt sets them down on the bench.

“I heard that you don’t care for sugary sweets,” Fëanor says, breaking the silence, and his heartbeat is normal again. “How do you feel about dark chocolate?”

Matt smiles. “Positively. You brought cake?”

“I did indeed. I understand that it’s a tradition both our cultures share.”

Matt turns to Makalaurë, and Makalaurë’s heartbeat is amused as he shakes his head. “No, we are not having cake for breakfast.”

“We _could_ have cake for breakfast.” As he speaks, Matt grabs for the green tea and the coffee. Makalaurë slides the pot of honey over to him, and fills the jug up, while Matt begins to fix the drinks.

“Because that would certainly reinforce your lessons on the importance of a balanced breakfast.”

“A balanced breakfast could be a piece of cake in each hand.”

That makes both Fëanor and Nerdanel laugh. Nerdanel tries to muffle it, her hand clapping over her mouth, and the sound escaping through her fingers, like water seeping through cracks.

“Oh, don’t look so exasperated, Makalaurë,” Fëanor says, his laughter shaking his words. “I recall having a similar discussion with you multiple times!”

Makalaurë sighs dramatically, as he pours the water into the mugs, and the smells of coffee and honey and bitter green tea fill the air. “And I’ll tell him what you told me. Breakfast, _then_ cake.”

* * *

 

The cacophony of smells turns out to be Fëanor’s present to him. As Neniel and Nerdanel go up onto the roof of the apartment to catch up, and Makalaurë finishes putting the dishes away in the kitchen, Fëanor carries the presents into Matt’s room. A case of paint and clay from Nerdanel, and a kit for making perfume from Fëanor.

“Your cousin Glasseth, the daughter of my son Caranthir, is a perfumer. She learned the craft from her mother,” Fëanor says, explaining as he sets the case of bottles and beakers down on the floor of Matt’s room. “She was happy to provide an introduction for this. Would you like to give it a try?”

His heartbeat is quick and hopeful and excited, the same way Makalaurë’s had been, when he suggested horse-riding.

Matt nods, and sits down on the floor. Fëanor sits down beside him, opens the case and unfolds a piece of paper, taking bottles out and spreading them on the floor: orange blossom, peppermint, water, something that smells like almond oil, and something that smells water and alcohol both. His motions are quick, economic and deft, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. But he’s an Elf. He probably has.

“How many times have you done this before?”

“Never,” Fëanor says, reaching for a glass bowl, and setting it down beside the bottles. “This is a new craft to me. I’m quite excited to try it.”

_Huh?_

He feels _exactly_ the same way Makalaurë had on the day with the horse-riding. Right down to the way he’s moving and speaking. Like he’s teaching Matt something that’s already important to him.

“Well, I’m not a perfumer,” Fëanor says, and Matt blinks. Right. He hadn’t been thinking of a particular song to cloud his thoughts, the way Vanessa had taught him. Of _course_ Fëanor would be able to read his thoughts. “But I am a maker, and making things is very important to the Noldor. It is the greatest source of our joy and our delight.”

Matt tilts his head to the side, hearing footsteps approach. Makalaurë, finally done with everything in the kitchen, now listening in the doorway. “I’m a human.”

“You are of the House of Fëanor, and a prince of the Noldor,” Fëanor says. “You are no less a Man for that, but you are also a Noldo.” His tone is brisk, as though if he acts as though there is no question to ask, Matt won’t argue with him, won’t question him. But the questions are already piling up on Matt’s tongue.

Does mean he’s no less a Murdock? Makalaurë and Neniel had never suggested changing his name. They’d kept it the same, on the family tree. _Matthew Murdock_ , in Braille, with Maggie’s name, and his Dad’s, and both of their names, all crammed into the one line.

“So I have to learn how to make things?” Matt asks, because he does not know Fëanor that well yet.

Fëanor hesitates, and Matt’s head tilts to the side, as he hears Makalaurë’s hair rustle.

“You don’t have to,” Makalaurë says from the door. “But I’d encourage you to try anyway.”

It’s definitely not a suggestion, and once, Matt would have stopped the questions there. It’s not like Stick would have tolerated anything else.

But that was then, and this is now, and this room, with his soft bed, and the medley of essential oils on the floor in front of them, is an entire universe away from the orphanage.

“Why?”

Makalaurë steps further into the room, sitting down gracefully beside them, setting something down on the floor beside them. The Braille label-maker. “Because when your heart is troubled, or there’s something on your mind, sometimes, it is a very great relief to make something. You might not be able to fix every problem in the world, or the same problem that you’ve seen occur a thousand times before might be playing out in front of your eyes again. But you can cook something for dinner. Write something. Or, in this case, you can mix a perfume.” He pauses, and Matt waits for it. “Besides which, all of this smells very good.”

Matt huffs a laugh. “Is that why you cook so much?”

“No. That’s because you and Neniel require a ridiculous amount of feeding,” Makalaurë retorts. His voice is level and deadpan, but the kiss he presses to the top of Matt’s head takes any sting away. “The punching bag is all well and good, and it has its place. But at some point, you have to start making beauty out of the mess.” His hair rustles as he looks at Fëanor. “So, Atar. What’s the first step?”

* * *

 

** Sunday, 5th February **

He goes down to Saint Agnes for Mass the next morning, and slips away to talk to her afterwards, when all the kids have been shepherded back to the orphanage. Neniel and Makalaurë are wrapped deeply in a conversation with Father Lantom about some facet of theological history, and Makalaurë barely pauses to squeeze Matt’s shoulder and nod acknowledgement that he’s heard Matt’s explanation. But it’s enough to count, so Matt butts his head against Makalaurë’s hip gently, and then slips off into the orphanage’s courtyard.

It’s still foggy overhead, and the sunlight hasn’t come all the way back from the winter yet. But the scarf Vanessa gave him is warm and soft around his neck, and so are the gloves that she got him. His nose is still cold, when the chill wind whips through the courtyard, but he’ll live.

Sister Maggie doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all, and her shoes thump gently against the courtyard as she comes to stand beside him.

“Happy birthday for yesterday,” she says. “Was the cake good?”

He nods. “Dark chocolate. Grandfather made it.”

Her heartbeat skips a beat, before she replies. “I’m assuming that you mean your adoptive grandfather?”

Matt nods, thinking about his Nana, and the wedding ring that she wore from sheer habit, even though her husband had been dead for years. “Grandpa Murdock is dead, isn’t he?” Maggie nods. “What about your parents?”

Maggie huffs a laugh. “Put simply, we’re not on speaking terms.” She squeezes his shoulder. “That’s why I felt the urge to clarify. It seemed like it would be a rather dramatic change of heart from my father.”

Matt blinks. “I thought you and Dad were married.”

She nods. “We were. My father never really got along with Jack. He and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye in a long time.”

“Why? Why didn’t he and Dad get along?”

Maggie shrugs. “I suppose my father doubted whether I could rely on Jack. Whether he’d make a good husband, and a good father.”

Matt’s fists clench, and his breath comes quicker, the cold, freezing air catching in his throat. “He _was_ ,” Matt says. “He was a good Dad.” Maggie says nothing, and Matt’s fingernails strain against the fabric of his gloves. He wants to let his nails dig into his palms, but it’s too cold in February for that. Instead, he repeats: “He was.”

It comes out hopeless, instead of angry, or defiant. Tired. As though he’s spitting back a formula, instead of defending his father.

“I don’t doubt it,” Maggie says, and Matt feels even colder. “He loved you so much. Kept looking at you like you’d vanish, if he took his eyes off you for a second. I don’t remember much from those days, but I do remember that much.”

_Then why didn’t he come home?_

He wants to yell, he wants to scream, he wants to cry. But it’s not _Maggie’s_ fault that Dad didn’t come home.

_Why didn’t you come home, Dad?_

 

* * *

That afternoon, Nerdanel takes him to a museum exhibit, and says nothing about how quiet he is. Where Neniel would wait for him to talk about it, and stay silent until he finally gave in, Nerdanel seems to sense that he can’t do that right now, and instead fills the air with words about stone.

She teaches him the feeling of sandstone, marble, granite, quartz, onyx, jade, in the sculptures that you can touch, and talks passionately about abstract art as a way to capture feeling and emotion, as well as a visual depiction of everyday life. “It should never be single-sensory, Eruanna,” Nerdanel says, in the mixture of Quenya and English that she and Matt have taken to speaking in, and she sounds like Makalaurë when he talks about syncopation, or Neniel when she talks about ecosystems. “ _Never._ Art should make use of all of the senses, not simply sight.”

Before dinner, she sits down on the floor, tugging him to sit next to her, and presses a block of polymer clay into his hands. Fëanor and Makalaurë are both in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and sprinkling them on the pizza bases. “Now you try.”

Matt digs his fingers into the clay, feeling it give beneath the pressure.

Make something. Make anything.

He can’t think of anything.

“Perhaps something for Makalaurë? Or Neniel?” Nerdanel suggests. Her voice is gentle and amused, like she’s seen this before. But she probably has, with all of Makalaurë’s brothers.

Matt clicks his tongue against his teeth, as he thinks about that, and then an idea takes root. If he pushes it like _that,_ maybe...

The clay folds under his fingers, as Makalaurë’s humming fills the air.

 

* * *

He brings it up with Makalaurë that night, when he comes into Matt’s room to tuck him in. Normally, he’d settle down in the rocking chair, but this time, he looks at Matt, and climbs onto the bed next to him, guiding Matt’s head to rest against his shoulder. Matt turns his head in and listens to the rhythm of his pulse, breathes in his smell.

“Matt? What is it?”

Matt sighs against Makalaurë’s shoulder, and Makalaurë’s hand comes up and taps Matt’s cheek.

“I can’t help if you keep it inside,” he coaxes. “Out with it.”

Matt bites his lip, before he sighs. “It’s about my Dad.”

Makalaurë’s hand does not move from Matt’s shoulder. “Yes?”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“Bits and pieces. I tried to do some digging, when we started visiting you. Your father was murdered, I know that much. He–” Makalaurë hesitates. “I’m not sure how much you know. He had some enemies.”

“Roscoe Sweeney.”

“In particular. But it wasn’t limited to him.” Makalaurë’s hand rubs over Matt’s shoulder again. “How do you know his name? I didn’t think the police would have told you much at all.”

“I was there,” Matt says, and Makalaurë freezes for a moment, his heartbeat accelerating, _babumbabumbabum_ , his muscles all tensing. “In the gym. When Sweeney told Dad about the match with Creel. I was there at a table, doing my homework. I was there when Sweeney told Dad that he had to throw the fight.”

Makalaurë’s heartbeat loses some of the panic, and he lets his breath out slowly, the way he always did when he was forcing himself to stay calm. “The coroner’s report said that you identified your father’s body.”

Matt nods, and warm arms circle around him, pulling him up and onto Makalaurë’s lap, warm hands guiding his face to rest against Makalaurë’s soft flannel shirt. Makalaurë’s breathing is shaky, and so is Matt’s, as he strokes through Matt’s hair.

“ _Pitya_ ,” he says, eventually, and his rich, golden voice is raw. “Oh, my _pitya_. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“But,” Matt says, because that’s not the worst of it. He still dreams of blood on his Dad’s face, under his fingers, sticky and viscous and tacky, and that’s not the worst of it. “But. I told him not to throw the fight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two nights before the fight. Or three. We were in the kitchen, and I’d gotten a book of speeches from the library. Thurgood Marshall. His Liberty Medal acceptance speech. I read some of it to Dad, and I told him...we’re Murdocks. We always get back up.” There are tears stinging at his eyes, and his voice cracks when he drops the final puzzle piece into place. “And Dad listened. Why did he _listen?_ ”

“He didn’t throw the fight, you mean.”

“That’s what I said.” The words come out muffled against Makalaurë’s shirt.

“No. It’s not.” Makalaurë kisses his forehead, and his thumbs brush against the tear-tracks, his calluses rough and warm and real against Matt’s skin. “A man makes his own choices, Matt. His son does not – _cannot_ – make them for him. I couldn’t make them for my father. Neither you nor Elrond nor Vanessa could make my choices for me.” Another kiss. “Do you know that he left you an inheritance?”

“I didn’t _want that!”_ His voice is cracking again, and he feels so small, so helpless, like he’s back in the alley, with his Dad’s body cold underneath his hands. _Dad! Daddy!_ His voice had been full of panic, complete and total helplessness.

“Shh. Listen to me,” Makalaurë’s voice is not coaxing or gentle, now. It’s steel-stern. “I didn’t ever meet him, but I know a few things about him anyway.” He takes a deep breath. “He was your _father_ , Matt. He loved you more than anything in the world. That meant worrying about you, ceaselessly. Not because you were a burden, or because you were a problem, but because it is the fate of fathers to worry about their children. It meant that he wondered how on earth he could have been given such a wondrous gift. Your name means ‘gift of God’ for a reason, Matt. And it meant that he wondered: ‘how can I help him? How can I give him a better life?’” Another breath from Makalaurë. “There’s no easy answer to that question. But the thought that you’ve found one is...alluring. One win, one decision, and like that, you’ve assured a better future for your child. And that’s how he chose to help you. You don’t have to like that. But you _did_ _not_ get your father killed, Matt. You didn’t have the power to make your father’s decisions for him.”

He is shaking in Makalaurë’s hold now, crying, and he can’t quite breathe, God, he misses him still, so _much_ –

“I just wanted him _home_.”

“I know. I know, _pitya_.” Makalaurë rubs at his back, still slow and gentle. “I know.”

Matt has the hiccups, now, hitching and harsh and mangling his words as they come out. “I wanted him _home_ , I wanted him to _come back._ And, and what if I forget him? Every, everyday, it gets harder to remember his face. What...what happens if I forget him?”

Makalaurë is quiet for a moment, still rubbing Matt’s back. “I’ve lived among Men for a long time now. The loss of memory...in some ways, I find that the hardest thing to understand. But there’s a curious thing that happens.” His thumbs swipe over Matt’s cheeks again, brushing more of the tears away. “Someone may lose the memory of a face, or a name. They forget how a particular event went; they forget how a story goes. But they themselves, the core of who they are? That stays for a very long time.” He takes a breath. “At heart, you will always be Jack Murdock’s son, Matt. Always.”

Matt sniffs. Makalaurë’s heartbeat sounds sad, as he says that. “Does that make you mad?”

Makalaurë’s hair rustles as he shakes his head, his heartbeat steady, truthful, surprised by the question. “No, not at all.”

“W-why not?”

“Because you can be Jack Murdock’s son, and mine as well.” Makalaurë kisses the top of his head again. “It will be alright, _pitya._ Trust me.”

That’s the scary part, Matt thinks, burying his head in the sodden T-shirt.

He already does.

* * *

 

** Monday **

**6th February, 2001**

“Do you want me to stay?” Makalaurë asks him, as they stand over the grave. The plot at Saint Agnes is small, tucked away behind the sanctuary, but big enough that it had taken a little while to find the grave. He hadn’t been able to remember the position of it.

Matt shakes his head. “Maybe just give me a minute?”

Makalaurë nods and squeezes his shoulder, and Matt waits until his footsteps have faded and he is standing in the doorway of the sanctuary. Out of earshot, even for his range.

Matt sighs and sits down beside the headstone, tugging his gloves off. The stone is small and plain, rough sandstone, carved hastily. It’s almost painful, the way the stone catches at his skin, but he runs his fingers over it anyway, exploring as he’d been too numb to do at the funeral. Feeling letters is never as easy as sighted people assume it would be.

There are only a few words, he realises.

_Jonathan Murdock_

_1965-1999_

Thirty-four years old. It’s old, compared to Matt. It’s _nothing_ compared to Makalaurë, or Neniel, or even Vanessa, who is the youngest Elf Matt has ever met. Measured against six thousand years, or seven thousand, or ten thousand, it’s such a short span of time.

Thirty-four years old. Vanessa had still been considered a teenager, at that point, looked after and herded by all of Makalaurë’s brothers and cousins and other relatives. Neniel’s cousin, too. When she’d been thirty-four, she had been living in Alqualondë, dancing on roaring breakers, and learning how to sail a swanship.

Thirty-four years old, and Matt’s Dad had been scraping a living by throwing fights, after he lost his parents, his wife, and his son had gone blind.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” Matt says, finally, breathing in the chill air, as his fingers finish exploring the headstone. “I shouldn’t have. It was hard, taking care of me. I know that. And you shouldn’t have listened.” The tears burn at his eyes again, but there are fewer of them, this time, the pain less intense. “I needed _you_ to come home, not some stupid inheritance. And you’re not going to do that. You’re not an Elf.” Matt swallows again. “I can’t keep waiting for you to come home, Dad.”

There isn’t a reply. But Matt tries to imagine what his Dad would say. If Makalaurë’s right, and forgetting isn’t as easy as Matt thinks it is.

What would Dad say to that?

 _You’re not supposed to be waitin’ up in the first place, Matty._ That’s what he’d said, the one time Matt had complained about being sleepy by the time Dad got home. Matt had never said anything about it again.

“You’d like them. Neniel and Makalaurë, I mean. They’re not normal, but I guess we weren’t either,” Matt says, tracing the letters again. The stone is starting to feel less rough under his fingers. “I like them a lot.”

He’s almost sure he knows what Dad would say to that. _I damn well hope so, kid. It’s gonna be pretty tough, otherwise._

“Probably,” Matt agrees, and then he takes a deep breath.

_You can be Jack Murdock’s son, and mine as well._

“I hope you don’t mind sharing,” he tells Dad, and he tugs his gloves back on.

* * *

 

** Wednesday, **

**8th February, 2001**

Making a horse for Makalaurë is more difficult than he’d anticipated. It's balanced all wrong the first time; the second time, one of the legs breaks off, because he's made it too thin.

“He would love whatever you made him,” Haruni Nerdanel says, on the third try, and her voice is soothing, as she reaches over and rubs at his back with warm hands that smell like clay and marble.

Matt’s fingernails slip through the clay again, as he tries to get the strand effect right for the tail.

“Sure, Haruni,” he says. He probably doesn’t sound entirely sincere, but he really needs to get these strands right.

“That wasn’t a platitude, Eruanna,” Nerdanel says dryly. “He still has a copy of Rávanen’s first song. I’m not much of a judge of music, but it was not kept for being a work which revolutionised the field.”

That was probably true, Matt reflects, as he runs his fingertips over the clay. Almost. One more groove, and this part would be done.

“He’ll love it,’ Matt agrees. “So it had better be good.”

Nerdanel sighs, but her heartbeat says that it’s an affectionate one. The way she ruffles his hair next confirms it.

“The angle you just did there needs to be another few degrees steeper. Let me show you.”

* * *

 

** Sunday, 17th February, **

**2001**

“And you won’t tell me what’s in the box because–”

“Because it is not mine to unveil,” Nerdanel says, with amusement, as Makalaurë turns the key in the lock, and they open the door to the apartment. Coats and scarves and gloves are shed in a whirl, and Makalaurë moves to the kitchen, seemingly on automatic.

Fëanor makes a considering noise, and then his hair rustles as he looks in Matt’s direction. “Eruanna, if you do not open the box soon, I think I will start getting impatient.”

“Surely not,” Nerdanel says, with a smile in her voice, and Matt huffs a laugh at that, at his grandparents, even as his stomach twists. He made it for Makalaurë, and Fëanor wouldn't laugh, and neither would Nerdanel, but he can't give it to Makalaurë with them there. He just _can't._

“Oh!” Fëanor says, before giving Matt a nod. “Of course. I understand entirely.”

Matt lets his breath out all at once, and picks the box up off the table, nodding at Nerdanel as he collects it. The feeling of the weight through the box confirms what’s inside, which is good, because it smells way, way different. “Thank you, Haruni.”

“You’re welcome, _indyo_ ,” Nerdanel says, as Matt walks into the kitchen and tugs on Makalaurë’s hand. Makalaurë ruffles his hair, and then stills when Matt tugs on his hand again.

Stick had crushed the bracelet in his fingers, and Matt is almost completely sure that Makalaurë wouldn’t do that. But…

_Not here._

“Matt?”

Matt licks his lips, and takes a deep breath, breathing in spices, the lingering smells from breakfast, the orange and cinnamon of Makalaurë’s tea. Worlds away from the basement of Saint Agnes. _Worlds_ away.

“I’ve got something for you,” he answers, and he even manages to smile at Makalaurë as he says it. “Come with me?”

“If Nerdanel or I need tea in the next twenty minutes, I think I can get it for us,” Fëanor says from the couch, his tone very innocent.

Something unspoken passes between Makalaurë and Fëanor then, before Makalaurë nods, and lets Matt tug him towards his bedroom. Makalaurë shuts the door behind them, and comes to sit on the bed beside Matt.

“What is it?”

“Here,” Matt says, handing him the box. “It’s the thing that I’ve been working on with Haruni Nerdanel.”

“Oh!” Makalaurë’s heartbeat is already skipping up into that delighted rhythm, the same one that Matt had felt when Rávanen came home. His fingers move over the ribbon, unwrapping it easily, and carefully setting it to the side. “I thought she was looking very pleased. Thank you, Matt, I–” his voice trails as he lifts the lid off. “ _Oh.”_

He cradles the horse in his hand, and Matt can hear him running a finger over it. “Matt, she’s beautiful.”

Matt smiles. “Haruni did a lot of the hard work.”

“Perhaps I should start another jar, for when you try and deflect praise.” Makalaurë nudges him in the ribs. “She’s lovely, Matt. Thank you.”

Matt takes another deep breath. That’s the first gamble, and it paid off better than he’d hoped. Now for the second part.

_Is this what stepping off the edge of a cliff feels like?_

“I’m glad you like it, Atto.”

Makalaurë freezes for a terribly long moment, his heartbeat skittering, and Matt feels like his own heart might thump out of his chest from fear, the way it's beating.

Then Makalaurë's arms wrap around Matt in a crushing hug that nearly knocks the breath out of him.

* * *

 

** March 31st, 2001 **

A year has gone by since the night when Matt Murdock snuck out of the orphanage.

He stands on the edge of the Pier 84 park with Neniel. She is carrying her sandals in one hand, and holding his hand with the other.

“Did you feel nervous?” she asks him. The smell of electricity – _ozone_ , Neniel had explained, a few months ago – is still hanging thickly in the air, almost crowding out the smell of springtime, and her lily soap. _Our family has that effect_ , she’d said, dryly.

Matt cocks his head, thinking about the question, before he shakes his head. “No. Not really.” He would have been, before. But Neniel’s told him so many stories about Ossë that it’s hard to remember that most of the world would find him daunting. It’s also hard to think of him as terrifying when he calls Neniel _streamlet_ and told Matt that he knew all the best embarrassing stories about what she was like, when she was growing up.

“Excellent. We should organise for you to visit your grandmother and grandfather on my side, next. And my sisters, and your cousins! Perhaps in the summer?”

Matt smiles at her, and squeezes her hand, as they start walking east, back towards the apartment through the part. Spring has returned, and there is grass underfoot, bending underneath their shoes. “I’d like to do that.”

“Do you believe it? That it’s been a year?”

Matt shakes his head. “No. It feels longer.”

“Really? I feel quite the opposite.” She squeezes his hand once more. “I’m very glad that I was doing my marking here that night, though.”

Matt grins. “I’m glad I snuck out of the orphanage.” Neniel flicks at his ear in gentle reproof, and Matt snickers for a bit, enjoying the sunshine, the smell of springtime, and Neniel’s cool, dry hand in his, and the way she bites her lip to suppress a laugh. “ _You’re_ glad about it too.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

Matt’s snickers turn into laughter at that, and Neniel’s laugh bursts free, too, and their heartbeats thud in time. After a while, the sound dies away, and he listens to the pigeons cooing. Neniel squeezes his shoulder, steady and grounding and affectionate, the way she always is. Constant as springtime and the sunrise, and just as warm.

“I _am_ glad, Emmá,” Matt says, the words tripping off his tongue, and blinking after he says them, because that had not been the plan. The plan had been to ask her if she’d let him call her that on Mother’s Day, and to have had made breakfast for her.

Neniel’s heartbeat doesn’t skitter with shock, as Makalaurë’s had. Instead, she comes to a stop, pulling him to a halt as well, and hugs him tightly. Matt leans into it, his head against her stomach, breathing in her smell. He’s never going to be able to associate lilies with anyone else now. Part of him thinks that it will be the last thing he remembers.

“I love you too,” Neniel whispers, hearing everything that he can’t say yet, like she always does, and they stand like that in the sunlight for a while, her shirt soft against his face.

Then she squeezes his shoulders, when he finally pulls away. “Come on, Matt. Let’s go home.”

He nods, and then pauses. “...can we get ice cream? I think we’ve run out.”

A smile in her voice, as she replies. “What a travesty. We can’t let that happen.”

_**fin** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The anecdote about Saint Augustine is a rather common in Christian circles, and is about an encounter he had following his conversion with a prostitute he used to visit. The story's heart of second chances and no longer being defined by one's past seemed painfully relevant for the story. 
> 
> 2\. Quenya with Fëanor:
> 
> Atar: ‘Father’. More distant than ‘Atto’ or the Primitive Quendian ‘Ataro’, both of which would translate better to ‘Daddy.’ 
> 
> Emel: Sindarin, ‘mother’, can be used to refer to a mother-in-law. I think this sounds more natural to Neniel’s ear than ‘Amil’ does, and Nerdanel is not fussy.
> 
> Dialogue:  
> “[1] _Hello, Grandfather Fëanor! Hello, Grandmother Nerdanel! Long journey?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“No, not at all. A star shines on the hour of our meeting, Matthew, my grandson.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Fëanor is following Matt’s cue here, and blending the formal and informal registers. At least, that’s how I read what’s going on! Eruanna translates to ‘Gift of Eru’ and ‘Matthew’ derives from Matityahu, ‘Gift of God.’ 
> 
> 3\. As to Matt seizing up about 'stories aren't everything' and Fëanor flinching, well, I figure this is an inevitable sort of friction with them both in the vicinity, with Matt as the son of the dead boxing (anti-?)hero, and Curufinwë "our deeds will be a matter of song until the ending of Arda" Fëanor, returned to life.
> 
> 4\. Caranthir’s daughter Glasseth is from the parent timeline of this, and appears in the story _Fair and Free._ Her parents’ meeting is explored in the story _One Drop Should Be Enough._
> 
> 5\. Maggie having a dysfunctional relationships with their own parents is the only way I can make sense of canon. It doesn’t excuse it, mind, but it would _explain_ Maggie’s silence if, for example, she believed that she would be a bad mother for Matt, and that there was something in her that precluded her from being a good mother. 
> 
> 6\. I don’t think Jack’s age is specified in canon, but it makes most sense to me if he meets Maggie while he is in his mid-twenties and at his physical peak, but by the time Matt loses his sight, he is starting to slow down a little, and it’s beginning to get harder. And more than that, I’ve just read him as always being in at least his thirties by the time he appears in _Cut Man._ So, the random birth year.
> 
> 7\. Speaking of birth: Matt’s birthday date is almost certainly specified in canon. I am changing it for the sake of this story. 
> 
> 8\. If anyone’s curious, I think Matt made the horse, and then Nerdanel decided that she could help with the glazing and firing process, and that she could teach Matt more of those advanced arts another time, when she had an actual kiln and a bigger work-space to work with.
> 
> 9\. Nerdanel is best-known as a sculptor and smith and not a potter. But as ValkyriePhoenix has pointed out, sculptors working in stone and metal will usually do prototypes in clay first, to work any kinks out of the design, before completing the final product in the desired medium. And I imagine you always start a beginner on clay, especially somebody who can mostly just feel what they're doing. 
> 
> 10\. Elvish family terms: 
> 
> Atto: ‘Daddy’, ‘Dad’, Papa. Quenya. 
> 
> Emmá: Mum, Mom, Mama. Kindi.
> 
> Emel: Mother, Sindarin. 
> 
> Haru: Grandfather, Grandpa.
> 
> Haruni: Grandmother, Grandma.


End file.
